I believe...

Today I’m prompted to talk about belief: belief in the idea that I can become a writer. But I don’t want to talk about that. I do believe in my ability of becoming a writer. I can visualize it, see the dream form, and wait for it to become a reality. But that’s not all that I believe in. So instead of writing a blog post about something that frankly, bores me, I won’t. I’m going to some of the things I believe in. And since I made the declaration yesterday that I am a writer, then yes, a list doesn’t revoke that assertion. 

I believe in God.

I believe that I make a difference.

I believe that friendships are some of the best, yet hardest, things in life.

I believe in the power of a well-written song.

I believe that at everyone’s core, they are a good person.

I believe that we, including myself, are entirely too selfish.

I believe that love will find a way.

I believe that after everything is said and done, there will still be laughter.

I believe that writing is a very private practice.

I believe that words hurt.

I believe that a cup of tea can brighten up any rainy afternoon.

I believe that when people say, “I just feel like I should do it” then they probably are right.

I believe that no matter the amount of money in your bank account you will still find something you wish you had.

I believe that sometimes all that is necessary is a hug.

I believe that we are not perfect and that perfection is unattainable.

I believe that art needs no explanation.

I believe that families hurt.

I believe that cleanliness is in the eye of the beholder.

I believe that public education needs a face-lift.

I believe that writing can inspire, encourage, dismay, and motivate.

I believe that if no one bothers to read this, I’ll keep writing anyways. 

I am a writer.

I am a writer. Those four words instill a lot of fear within me. I have some doubt as I make that declaration since I tend to assume that a writer must be someone of Faulkner or Steinbeck stature. But a blog that I follow that is challenging me to 15 days of blog posts, http://goinswriter.com/, told me to go ahead, be brazen, and call myself a writer.

As soon as I read that I immediately disagreed.  I’m not a writer. I don’t have a novel on The New York Times Best Seller’s List. I haven’t sat in one of Ellen’s comfy, red chairs and proclaimed my book will be turned into a movie starring Zac Efron. I haven’t even gone on a book tour and read excepts of my novel at Barnes and Noble to people looking for the latest Vogue magazine while their children cry in their strollers. And yes, I want to do all of those things. I want to get a phone call saying my publisher must print an additional 50,000 copies of my novel, that Ellen needs me to bring my most embarrassing high school photo to the set, and I want to be ignored while reading an excerpt of chapter seven of my next novel. Then I can call myself a writer.

But is that really what it means to be a writer? For so long I’ve focused on the glamorized version of writing. The interviews, the million dollar book deals, the fame and glory; but what about the craft of writing itself. I’ve lost sight of what it means to write. The act of putting pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, and pouring out one’s feelings, heartache, emotion, and a myriad of other sentiments is writing. And writing shouldn’t be for the pomp and circumstance; writing should be for me. Writing has always been for me. But I’m just now beginning to realize that what I write makes me a writer. The glory doesn’t make someone a writer. It is just simply the act of writing that makes one a writer.

But even as I pen (or type) this blog entry I still hesitate in labeling myself as a writer. What if no one reads anything I write? What if my journal is the only place where the sincerest form of writing actually happens? What if what I write isn’t any good? Am I still a writer then? Typically I would say, “No, Mira, you aren’t a real writer.” 

But not today: because today I officially declare myself a writer. 

Writing My Life Away

For my job I’m constantly creating lesson plans, handouts, new activities, art projects, seating charts, behavior intervention plans, and the list just continues. And don’t get me wrong; I enjoy it. However, there is something that bewitches me even more. Creating art. I don’t want to define art because I feel that undermines the very purpose of art. Art has no definition, no rhyme or reason. Art just is. The type of art I’m discussing though, the kind that I call my own, is writing. Sure there are several mediums I indulge in, but writing is the closest to my heart.

Writing has been a love of mine for a while. I’m mesmerized by the intermingling of words; a dance that they perform throughout each sentence. I began this love of writing in high school, when I joined the high school paper. I loved reporting, editing, and watching the creation process happen, from beginning to end. Since high school, I worked for a few local papers and published for a few online magazines. I began journaling more and in turn, found myself falling in adoration of the truth that I could unveil in a journal entry. When I write it’s as if another layer of me is being pulled back, another part being revealed. I can more easily express my soul through writing than I can in a conversation.

Words affect me more than anything and writing allows me to craft something and take it’s own life form. In the beginning of a creative writing I intend for the piece to go one way, but by the completion of the writing the piece has become it’s own. It has it’s own life and once it’s out there, once the writing is available for consumption, it stands on it’s own. I wish I could write all the time. And I’m not referring to e-mails, or text messages, or tweets. I wish to write everyday, all day long. I realize it’s a dream. But it’s one I’m attempting to make a reality.

One year. So many things have changed.

One year. So many things have changed.

A year ago things were ok. My life was fine. I didn’t have any major issues to handle, work through, or figure out. My life was steady.

In a year I’ve watched my life fall to pieces. I’ve watched as I’ve seen my family slowly spiral into chaos and torture, plagued by an immense weight. I’ve seen my family robbed of all hope. I’ve seen the bottom, touched it, and did not come up for air. I’m not sure if I’m even out of it now.

It’s hard to stand by and watch a car crash happen. To watch the impact. To hear the crunching of metal. To smell the burning rubber. To see the glimmer of glass on the pavement. But yet, you can’t pull your eyes away from the destruction. My life felt and, at times, still feels like a sixteen car pile-up. Devastating, gut wrenching, and heart breaking.

However, in the last year I’ve learned a lot about myself. I am much stronger than I thought I was. I have had to carry the weight of my family a lot this year, and I’ve been able to do it. I am able to do my job well even at my lowest of lows. I can open up to people about what is going on in my life instead of putting on my mask. I know when I cannot do it alone and when to ask for help. I know that I have to love, no matter how much it hurts. I’ve learned I can be angry and it’s okay. Trust will not happen overnight. I’ve learned that my Mom is a wonderful and beautiful woman. And that my Dad is a good man.

What happened? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’m a different Mira today than I was a year ago. I’m not happy that these events had to happen in order for me to become this updated version of myself, but I am glad I’ve turned out this way. I could be bitter, remorseful, and angry. And while I feel all those emotions and more at times, those emotions don’t define me.

One year. So many things have changed. Including me.

Universal Suffering

We forget how fortunate we are. So often we gripe about our finances, our friends, our jobs, our schoolwork, our relationships, and everything in-between. I quickly forget just how lucky I am to have the life that I have. Sure we all have hard times, but a lot of people have it harder than us. I realize just how trivial my problems are compared to what I watch on the news and read on the internet. My problems seem so overwhelming until I hear of the continued oppression of women in the Middle East, the Haitian people that are still left in strife after the earthquake, and the impoverished people in my own hometown.

No, my problems are not as big as those, but my problems are still real. It’s hard to just ignore my struggles and put them out of mind. I guess that is what bonds us all. Pain. Pain is a common thread, a link, throughout humanity. We all suffer. We all feel hurt, loneliness, and pain. Suffering doesn’t discriminate based on socioeconomic status or popularity. Pain welcomes us all. The thing is, we have to figure out how we’re going to handle it. Are we going to succumb to the destruction? Or are we going to fight back in any way that we can? I choose to fight.

One of my friends, Stephen, made a video about the pain in our own backyard, and how a group of people are trying to make a difference. Check it out: DRM.

You can't always get what you want.

I wanted to write this moving, powerful, soul shaking blog today. Well I wrote about 23,815 different things and they all crashed and burned. They were either boring, had no depth, or sounded like a five year old was blogging. So I’m just going to list random things that are on my mind, in no particular order. I cannot promise any amazing revelations, but I do know that this is one side of me. The side of me that is random, unorganized, and frenetic, with a touch of A.D.D.

I hate my cell phone. I had a great weekend. I spent $15 at Goodwill today and bought the coolest pieces for my bedroom art project that I’m working on. XBF, I hate it when I’m there but feel so much better afterwards. I have a countdown for the 30 Seconds to Mars show (13 days!). I only let certain people know everything about me. I still want that tattoo. I hate feeling helpless. You can’t take money with you when you go. I like cooking. I’m ready for school to be over. Every time I walk into Crosspointe I feel safe. Since my exams are over I actually get to read what I want to, not essays, quizzes, or journal responses. I love my friends. When I stop moving and actually have time to think about things I am conflicted, confused, and questioning a lot. In my dream home I want to have a room where the walls are lined with books, floor to ceiling. I want so much but am unsure if any of it will actually happen. I love getting mixed CD’s. I wear flats, heels hurt. If I see a “check all that apply” I check them all. I refuse to be put in a box.

You're hot then you're cold.

Hot, long days that seem to stretch on for eternity. Warm breezes whip through the trees and our hair. Vibrant green grass, cool blue water. Yeah, none of that is going on now. It’s ice cold; literally, there is ice on the ground. I’ve never seemed to fully grasp the concept of winter and why we have it around, but so be it. But my focus isn’t horrid, depressing, dead winter.

Hands down, summer is my favorite season. One, there is no school. Two, I can do anything I want with my time. There is no schedule to dictate when I have to do something. I have the freedom to whatever I want. I am grateful for my job during these few months because I have the luxury to establish my own schedule.

But in that vastness I am conflicted. There are so many things I want to do. So many opportunities to take hold of, and I’m uncertain about what each risk will bring. Last summer I did so many things that helped shape my faith, relationships, and passions and I want to continue on that path. I want to discover more about each of those and more. Summer opens up so many doors and I hope that I fully take advantage of all that summer has to offer. When Summer comes knocking I want to embrace him warmly and with a sense of rebirth. The only stipulation, I have to wait for summer to show up. And right now, who knows when that’ll happen.