Alone in Italy

A morning:

"I love them all. Perhaps more than I should, perhaps just a small part too much. I can't really help it though, it's my heart. I think my heart has some sort of condition with the way it grows and is always so brimming and full. I think it doesn't listen to me anymore.

But I'm okay with that. 

I'm okay with loving them all. Even if it means they'll never love me back half as much. That's really not all that terrible or grey. I mean, I can hardly tell myself that these days, tell myself that it should hurt. I used to think it would hurt. I used to be afraid that when this time came, they would all forget me and I would die. But it did, and I didn't. It's not so bad as I imagined it would be, loving with abandon. In fact, there's a strange beauty in it. 

I am learning to appreciate loving without being loved back to the same extent. I am learning just to give. 

And it's okay. It is okay to have a spilling heart. There's no sin in that." 

To be a singular human is a splendid thing, and not. I have learned that. I am learning that.
I woke up this morning, alone in a blanket fort while the light crept in through the white of the sheets above my head, and I pulled my quilt up to my chin as I thought in the earliest of the day, and I began to write those words above onto a page in my journal. You're going to be alone like this, I said to myself. You're going to be alone like this more than just now, many times. You're going to be alone in amazing places. You're going to be alone doing amazing things. You're going to be alone for a little while longer. I wanted to cry when I thought that. But I didn't. I just didn't, because there was really no point. You're going to be alone like this, I thought. And so what, I told myself. So what if you're alone like this. 
To be alone is just a state of being.
I nestled down in my quilts after journaling, and I read parts of "Winnie the Pooh" while I drank my tea, surrounded by piles of A + my pillows. I prayed this morning, for the people I love. It was Christopher Robin that reminded me to do it. He said something in a story and it pricked my heart and suddenly I was on my knees. Christopher Robin does that to me; he takes my breath away in the best ways possible.
I prayed hard this morning underneath the walls of my blanket fort.
And then I cried. I let myself cry after a while. Because I loved everyone—I love everyone—with a lot of heart. And sometimes it gets to be too much. Sometimes I have to remind myself and quote "The Princess Bride," because sometimes I forget that life isn't fair.
No one owes love to me. No matter how much I love them, they will never owe me love.
Love isn't something you can earn or keep bottled in a jar or charge people for. Love isn't something you grasp at with fluttering hands. Love isn't designed to be of equal or lesser value, but not everyone is capable of the same amount.
No one loves me the way I love them.
And maybe that's selfish to say, or stupid, but most days I feel like it's true. I try not to be half-hearted in my relationships + friendships with people. I try to go all in, full out, pressing always. I try so dang hard. And so the realization hit me then, this morning in the white light, a blue A. A. Milne novel clutched in my hand. No one loves me the way I love them. And at first I thought I was being pitiful and unfair, but the more I thought about it, the clearer it became.
No one loves me the way I love them because we all love different.

Just because someone loves you with what seems like less, doesn't mean they don't love you with all that they have.

So I am throwing my whole heart in. No matter who, no matter what. I don't want to live half-lives. I want one life, whole, and blistering with passion + able to invoke jealousy for its persistence.
I want to give it my all.
And to think I discovered this about myself in a blanket fort.

One day, I am going to be in Italy alone.

I already know that. It's just something in my heart that I can tell will happen. It scared me though, writing those words out loud to you, whispering them under my breath as I did. Because I have never told anyone that. Even though I have always been sure of it, I've never told anyone. It's not really something to be proud of, something to flaunt. It's kind of scary actually. I like to think it will be a step of boldness for me. Really I know it will probably just be an act of desperation, going to Italy alone.
I get tired of waiting.

Another day, night rather:
I'm sitting in my bed, wrapped up in quilts, chunky yarn next to me and peppermint tea by my side. Today I had somewhat of a panic attack. It crept up on me as I sat alone in our little house, trying to finish my piles of homework.
I need a table, I thought. I need to build a table. With dark-stained wood full of knots and flaws and not so perfect corners but just almost. Simple and understated. Strong.
And then I thought a little bit more and I came to a different conclusion.
I need someone to build me a table.
And then I cried into my tea.

We all have our quirks. The little things that just make your heart beat faster than usual. The moments that catch your breath in the back of your throat and you have to pause to find it again. The spaces in between laughter. The cause of a smile. The tears and sobs. The pleasures that after a while when you're a little more grown up you realize maybe they only make you feel the way they make you feel and not the entire world.
It's warriors for me. Warriors and tables and old books full of poetry.
Tables get me every time.
More than that though, it's people who can make things with their hands + wood. My stomach is expectantly waiting for the day a man shows up in my life and hands me something absolutely gorgeous that he made. Then the butterflies will come. Then I won't have to go to Italy alone. Then it will all make sense. Then.

This spring my dad and M and I went to the ocean. We slept in a tent on the sand and watched the sunset + sunrise and collected seashells in our pockets. My dad was walking next to me while we were there and he turned to me and he said, What are you looking for in a husband? And the question caught me off-guard because before that spring, I had completely given up on the idea of knowing what my husband was supposed to be like. I was just slipping back into being okay with dreaming of him, and I hadn't had much time to give it thought. So I stuttered and stumbled and fluttered a little. Grasping at the feelings I used to have but seemed to have forgotten, and reaching for the newest ones that we're blossoming at the top. Three things, he said. Your three most important requirements. 
The last one was that I wanted him to be able to make things.

I want him to be like my dad.

I'll never forget what he said to me next. My father looked at me and he told me, I didn't know how to do all this stuff. When I met your mom. I didn't know how to build things, how to fix things. I had to learn. The ocean was soundless when he said that. In my life, my dad always knew those things. He was always my dad who could build it. Who could fix it. Who could make it better. The dad with the wood-cutting and the box building and greased hands. The dad who did all of it.
I never imagined him any other way.
And I had to reconcile that fact in my heart. I had to bury it in my bones and not forget it. I can't forget it. Because if I do, I know I won't have the grace to accept someone who is not as beautiful as they can be yet. I know if a man came to me and didn't hand me anything absolutely gorgeous that he made, I would turn him away. I wouldn't be able to forgive him of his less-than-ness. Of his youth. Of his desire and effort to learn, but nothing coming of it yet. I would deny him. So I tucked them away, those words my dad said. I sewed them into the creases of my elbow and I listen to them every time I reach for something and my arm is within sight.

People will tell you in life that you can't have too high of expectations, you can't make them unrealistic, else no one will love you. No one will pursue you. No one will chase you.
But there's a balance.
I just want to tell you, there is an in-between.
I want someone who can make things. And if he can't make things, he's going to learn how to, else I don't want him. Harsh as that sounds, it's my reality, not my dream. It's the truth. I was raised like this and with this, and I will not deny myself what I have always had. If someone really wants to be in my life, they'll rise up to meet those expectations. I promise, I know. It's just like the Italy thing. I know I'll be there alone someday. And I know he'll walk in my door someday, either saying, I can build this, or, I'll learn to build this. I will do it for you.
Those are both a given.

A third day:
Nothing I am saying or writing seems to be making much sense these days. If anything, I blame my latest journal entries and all the tears I've been sobbing. Everything is beautiful or melancholy lately. Everything is making me want to cry.
Part of that is certainly because of Charles Dickens and all the homework I have had lately. Also "Robin Hood." My gosh, have you ever read the tales of that bandit? They're heartbreaking. I still remember the first time I read the novel. I was a mess by the end.

It's like I wake up, and I'm reading "Robin Hood" every morning, all over again.
But I didn't even bring it with me.

I think in a way, all of this is me simply trying to balance and weigh everything in my life right now. All of my dreams and wants and needs and thoughts and ideas and sureness and not so sureness. All of it, everything.
I've been seeing lately that I can be so much more of a better woman than I am. I wrote a list today about it. It had sweet little things, and also some giant important things. I like that we can always become more as humans, that we can always grow. I really like that.
But I don't want you to believe that I am always impatient + discontent. I love my life right now. I adore my life right now. I am treasuring these days of being a sister and a daughter and an aunt. I am holding my niece. I am driving the hours to see people. I am reading books I have always wanted to read. I am trying new things in the kitchen. I am painting on the floor. I am listening to Turandot all of the time. I am discovering new teas. I am building new bonds, bosom friendships. I am learning, learning, learning.
I am becoming.

Life is far too short to just sit around wait for things to happen to us. I realize now that I have to go do the things I want to, even if that means I have to do them alone. And then I will wrap them tightly in my heart, and safe-keep them there until that man arrives, and then I will tell them all to him. I will pull out the journal entries + the stones from the coast of Italy. The underlined poems + pictures of Claire and I. The flowers pressed in the pages of my copy of "The Secret Garden." The verses of Proverbs memorized. The seemingly never-ending search for the Eugene Field book. Flowers, every week, no matter what. Paintings. Tea leaves. Ukulele chords. Letters received. Acorns collected. Lavender. White dishes. Illustrations sketched onto the pages of homework. Small fairytales. Pale pink ribbons. Opinions about opinions. Memories of forts + late night discussions. The story of Joseph. The somedays plans. The learning to hold myself to a standard of grace and not perfection. All of it. I will pull it all out and crush it into his hands and press onto his chest and say to him, see? See, I did all this. Before I knew you and you knew me and we knew. This is who I was, this is what I did. Because while I waited for you, I didn't wait for life. 
And then I will smile and say, she was moving a little fast, but I'm so glad you caught up to us.

Who says Italy is for those who love, not for those alone? I suppose most of the entire world does, but I also suppose I'll just have to prove them wrong.
One day, I'll let you know when.
I have a few other things to do first. Life is a little bit of a struggle to keep up with. Her pace is somewhat like that of an Olympian's, and I was always only an average runner.

Lastly:

It is possible that this all boils down to the fact that it's midterms + I've been reading "Peter Pan" late at night under my sheets. It is quite possible my dears.

Wendy

My father and my little sister just walked out the door and drove off. They are going to Romania. Some 7000 miles and more, away. For two weeks, and then for three months.
And then I am going.
Four hours from here. From this little white house. From the peach and the plum trees. From the hens. From the books and the memories and the dreams. From childhood. From youth.
From my family.
Four hours from my family for two years.

I cannot even express the pull on my heart right now. How many salty tears are trailing down my face. How my hands are shaking.

I have never loved anyone so much as I love my family.

I have always been Wendy. It became so obvious to me last night as I wrapped myself in a quilt and wrote letters to my father and my sister and I sobbed. I was always Wendy. With the flying and the stories and the loving of Peter. The full heart and the tears and the responsibilities. The stubbornness. The thimbles and the little house. The fascination with fairies. The mermaids. The dreams.
I stood on the cusp of womanhood last night. Peter pulling on my nightdress. Saying, come with me. Fly away with me. Come back to Neverland. 
But I couldn't.
I am already grown.
There are lost boys Peter, I told him, more of them than your's. I need to find them. I need to help them. I need to help people. And he cried. Loud, ripping sobs. And so did I.
The moon even cried with us last night.

We cannot always stay young.

This is the hardest thing I've ever done. Saying goodbye, but also saying, I'll be back. I promise I'll come back. My mouth is full of salt and tears. I've never had that happen to me before. And I have cried, I have wept my heart out. But never this, this taste. Mingled with my breath and the blankets I press against my mouth as I try to catch the scent of my favorite girl, the one flying across the world. Part of me says that I can't do it. The little Wendy says that. Barefoot in her nightgown. Trembling at the window. I just want to sit down and give up and quit. I just want to stay. I can't do this, she says. And it's the truth.
But then I look in the mirror.
And she's already older. She's already a woman. She has to do this. She couldn't even remember how to fly if she wanted to. It's all gone now. And so, she can do this.

I can do this.

When I was tiny and smaller and little, I used to wish my heart out to leave this place. It seemed lonely and godforsaken. But I was just selfish.
Now I wish I could take all of that back.
Can I just say that? Can I just really be honest? This seems too big. This seems too hard. God has captured my heart so kindly and gently this past year. He has shaped me and directed me in a new way. He has pushed, with a strong hand on the small of my back. He has led and guided me in a beautiful way. And now my eyes are open. Now I am less selfish. Now I see where I am supposed to go, what I am supposed to do, this mountain I am climbing. This mountain I am to move.

Today that mountain seems too big.

And that's okay. I am learning that. I am learning it is okay to doubt. To think you can't do this. To just fall on your face and weep. I am learning it is okay to miss people before you're even gone. Because God is with me. He is building me, growing me. He gives me things that seem too big.
Because nothing is impossible for me.
Even when I am that woman-Wendy, and I run back to the nursery in fear that someone will tell me to grow up. Someone will dare me to move, to change. Someone will make me. And so I sit in the rocking chair with my knees pulled to my chest trying to make myself smaller, trying to will myself to fly. Trying to disappear. I know, even then, that nothing is too hard for me. That nothing is too big for me. That nothing is impossible for me. This threshold I have to cross over is huge, a gap that is yawning, a chasm that is wide. But it is not impossible. It feels that way, but it is not.

I laid in my bed last night and tried to remember everything. All of my best and greatest moments. All of the loveliest times. It is so important right now that I do that. This change, this transition, is heartbreaking. It is gut-wrenching. It is full of sobs and blossoming with newness and aching in my bones with growth. To remember right now makes it even harder, but it also speaks to the gorgeousness and the grace of this. I am not alone in it; I am never alone and never have been. There are people near and dear to me who feel the same things. Who suffer through these changes with me. And it is that mutual suffering that makes this state of being all the harder and all the better.
I need to make room in my heart for new memories. For new people. For new friendships. I am not saying goodbye, I am only leaving for a little while. And then I will come back with all of them, and share and share and share. We go on adventures to tell those that we love about them.
So I am reminding myself of that. And I remembering everything else.
It is very possible, that I have lived one of the most magical lives. One of those itseemstoogoodandtooperfecttobereal lives. The ones with forts in the backyard and rope swings in the maple trees. With hours of searching for fairies and days of living in palaces. A life with a hundred books. A childhood with a million dreams. Years of discoveries and experiments and challenges. With butterflies collected in teacups and dragonflies hidden in pockets. With secret meetings in the pear tree. With stargazing on the roof. With picnics in the hot sun on a quilt your mother made. With hands pressed in the cool dirt, the earth, as you plant tulips in a row. A life of mystery. A childhood of pages and pages of poems. Years of love and love and love and friendship. The sweetest friendship with your sisters and your brother.
A life of togetherness.

And then there's the salt again, in my mouth.

I never thought I was Wendy. That's probably why this is too hard. Why this mountain is too big. Five years ago, if you would have looked at me and handed me "Peter Pan" and said, it's you. You are her, I would have scoffed. Threw back my head and laughed. Now I wring my hands and cry. Because it would have been the truth you told me then. I am so pitiful I did not even know myself.
This is the best thing about me, that I cherish like this. That I love this hard.

I am Wendy Darling, and I never want to be anyone else.

I miss so much this morning, that pushing mountains is something I won't do today.
And that is okay.
I am fine with that.

Build me a fort out of carnations.

Dear Fleur.
I think I have 4 letters to write. But I was too busy re-reading Peter Pan and crying to look for stationary. And then I was skimming Jeremiah. And wondering if it would be weird if I wanted to name a boy "Atlas."

I want to go build a fort. And put carnations in it. And cut out fireworks. Is that even really possible? And you know what I really want to do? I want to make stuffed toys again. I miss doing that. I used to do it a lot.

I think I need to stop reading Peter Pan for a little bit.
I think J.M.Barrie makes me go mad.
Seriously.

I'm going to go do some algebra now. And draw. And probably skim more Jeremiah. And pretend to be sane.

Sometimes I just want to be a Mom. And sometimes I know why Wendy didn't go back to NeverLand with Peter.
Love Bell.

never.never.peterpaniheartyou.never.never.never.

one regret,

dear world,

that i am determined

not to have

when i am lying

on my deathbed

is that i did not

kiss you enough.

-Hafiz