And the sign said, "Long-haired freaky people need not apply."

That's a line from a great song called "Signs" by The Five Man Electrical Band.  It's a good song.  You should listen to it!  (Not the Tesla version.)

Another great line goes, "And the sign said, 'Everybody welcome, come in, kneel down, and pray.' "

It's a somewhat appropriate introduction to what I'd like to write about in this entry-- not so much signs, but sign language, particularly what I witnessed while I was in church one day, and what it makes me think about my own future.

While my family was on vacation in Orlando, we picked the closest Catholic church to our hotel to attend Sunday Mass.  It seemed like any ordinary church until I realized at the beginning of the service that a small section of about three to four families was singing the opening hymn in sign language, led by an extremely charismatic looking young woman (maybe late 20s or early 30s).

I was completely fixated on this occurrence, and, admittedly, had a hard time focusing on and listening to the priest's words while they were being signed silently right in front of me.  I've always been fascinated by sign language.  My parents were convinced that I was deaf as an infant, and bought all sorts of sign language books before taking me to a doctor to have my hearing checked.  Turns out, I wasn't deaf, just unresponsive to loud noises and apparently uninterested in what they had to say to me.  Of course, I grew out of it after a couple of months, but the sign language books were there throughout my childhood, and although I never pursued any further learning courses, I can sign a few random vocabulary words and beginner sentences.

However, this has almost nothing to do with what I really found fascinating.  The signing absolutely beautiful-- I have never seen people "sing" in sign language before.  That blew me away.  But even though I stole a few glances at the families signing as a group, I could barely take my eyes off of the woman leading the signing.  She gave off this aura of beauty and happiness and, without saying anything, let it be known that she truly loved what she was doing.

The joy on her face while she was signing for this small group, the expertise she showed at a relatively young age, the familiarity with the people she was leading, the delicate beauty of the actual signing-- she just looked completely, undoubtedly happy.  She looked like she had found her calling in life and put her whole soul and being into translating the world for these people.

I don't know her life story or anything beyond what I saw for those sixty minutes in church.  Maybe she's completely miserable with her home life or she's rude when she speaks out loud or she has a short temper or something not so perfect.  But from what she was projecting in that church, I have a hard time believing those other possibilities.  She had the face of someone who has found joy in what they do.

I want that.  I really, really want that.  I'm scared that I'm going to wind up miserable at a job in an office somewhere that I dread going to every day, like I have for the past two summers that I worked internships.  I want to be happy with what I do.  I want to write.  But I know I can't support myself or a family like that, at least at first, so I've got to make some sort of compromise.

How do I find the joy in what I do everyday that this young woman has?

Baby Steps at 60+mph

I came back from a fantastic trip to Universal Studios, most of which was spent in The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  I won't go into the maudlin aspects of what being there meant to me, nor the utter geeking out that occurred as I weaved my way through a pseudo-Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, pretending that I was something more than ordinary, something more than human, something more than me.

However, the trip allowed me a chance to put my new philosophy to the test.  I've always been "okay" with roller coasters, but I hate, hate, hate upside down loop-de-loops.  I went on The Zydeco Scream (from good old Jazzland!) when I was a kid and thought I was going to die, or something equally overly dramatic.

But I'm learning that I can't live my life in fear and maybe miss out on awesome experiences because I'm too scared to do something.  I know there will come a time when I won't be able to overcome my fears, or that some fears are legitimate enough to the point where I really shouldn't attempt to overcome them, but roller coasters seemed like a good start for me.

So I hemmed and hawed my way through the first line and got all of my nervous energy out through babbling and jittery legs.  They strapped me in, and off I went!

And I loved it.

I loved it!  It was exhilarating, exciting, and ultimately, freeing.  There was another roller coaster at a separate park that takes riders up at a 90 degree angle, drops them from there, and goes crazy with upside-downing and loop-de-looping for the whole length of the park.  The first time I saw it, I took one look and say NO.  But as the day went on, I managed to talk myself into going on it for the simple reason that there was a small chance that I might love it.  And why would I deny myself the opportunity to experience something that I love?  Even if I wound up hating it, I would be able to say that I knew I hated it for a fact, not a speculation.

So I went on it, and while I didn't love it, I didn't hate it.  I didn't die, throw up, faint, or anything that my fear-clouded brain told me would probably happen.  I actually went on it twice, just to make sure my fear was conquered.

Guess I can say I'm pretty proud of myself.  It's not a huge victory, but that doesn't diminish the victory itself.  Roller coasters aren't really one of my paralyzing fears, like the ocean or extreme heights, but I definitely was afraid of them to a degree.  I'm mostly just proud of myself for being able to look at the fear, challenge it head-on, and not only be successful in challenging it, but finding out that I actually like it.  Nothing to be afraid of.

Onward in my quest to shine light on all the dark areas that fear wants to inject in my life!

Dralion!

Last week, I was fortunate enough to go see Cirque du Soleil's performance "Dralion" with Michael and some family members.  This is the second CdS performance I've seen; the other was "Mystère" in Vegas when I was 13.

Both times, I was in awe of the sheer beauty of the performances, perhaps moreso this time around, being older and more aware and able to appreciate just what I was seeing.  And, like so many things nowadays, it made me think of my own life, what I'm doing, where I fall short, and the like.

Because it would be almost a dishonor to the performers and the creators to not mention this, I want to make a mention of the gorgeous backstory, costumes, and symbolism of Dralion (eastern and western culture-- the dragon and lion-- combined).  Essentially, the audience witnesses the four elements (earth, water, fire, and air) moving together, interacting, and demonstrating the peace and balance between the four of them.  Two (adult) Âme-Forces ("âme" being French for soul) sing throughout the performance, while their child watches the elements, interacting with them, but also displaying the innocent joy of being, simply, a child.  Clowns also make a few appearances for humor purposes, but the beauty of the elements was all I could concentrate on.  The costumes, their motions, the personalities they displayed through their acts-- gorgeous.

But what I took away from Dralion was a little different than that.  The inner acts of the performance, meaning what the performers did-- trampoline tricks, acrobatics, tumbling, jumping through impossibly small hoops, balancing, and so on-- fascinated me to a point beyond words.  Not only were they all wonderful to watch, drawing many gasps, cries, cheers, and applause, but I walked away from Dralion with an incredible sense of respect in my heart for what they did.  While I was watching them, I was so fearful that they might mess up, fall, get hurt, embarrass themselves, but not once did anything unfortunate happen.

Why?

Why, why, why?  From a practical point, the answer is immense, unyielding, uncountable hours of practice.  Infinite attempts of doing stunts over and over again until they are perfect.  Discipline to an unthinkable degree.

I like to imagine that there is also a sense of incredible self-belief.  When performers go to jump through a tiny hoop balanced six feet in the air-- do they fear that they might fail?  Or do this they know that they will not fail, because they CANNOT fail?  Is failure simply not an option?  If there is never a chance to fail, then is success always the predestined path?

I don't know.  I do know that I don't have nearly the necessary amount of will-power to ensure my own success.  Any success that I am blessed with will be the result of some hard work, yes, but also an enormous amount of luck, help, and divine intervention, I think.  I also know that I am not yet confident enough in myself to tell Failure that it is not an option for me.  I fear failure more than I can say.  I fear it every day, in all that I do, and that is not healthy for me.

Do the performers befriend Failure?  Or do they mock it, shun it, cast it aside, so that it doesn't dare show its face during their shows?  I don't know their techniques.  I wish I did; maybe, I could learn from them. I think I need to confront this fear and fail a little every now and then in order to grow.  I don't want to, but maybe it's what I need.  What if I were to go my whole life without failing?  I imagine that would actually be-- boring?  I just don't think it would allow for many chances to grow, and I'm growing.  I'm learning!  I fear failure so much, and yet, I know eventually, I have to embrace it.

Maybe just a few more attempts at success before I have to have that bitter taste of failure and growth...

Stick a fork in me...

I'm DONE!

This semester is OVER.  I'd say I'm sooo relieved, but I'm only somewhat relieved.  The semester isn't truly over (for me) until all of my grades are lined up neatly on my online "report card."  That's when I can finally breathe that sigh of relief and start enjoying my vacation.

So this leads me to the question: why do I place so much value on my grades?  It's only natural that I should want to do well and succeed at the things I put so much effort into, but why was so much effort exerted in the first place?  Why is it that some people find their self-worth in clothes, make up, money, labels-- and I find my self-worth in grades?

It's not something I wish to dwell on for too long of a post.  Just something I've been mulling over recently and wondering if a 4.0 will even matter to me in a year, two years, ten years.  It's a goal I set for myself, yes, but why did I set that goal?  Why does a letter hold so much power over me?

And I'm not exactly willing to dig through 21 years of personal history to figure out why good grades- perfect grades- are so valuable to me.  Being a perfectionist has been synonymous with being Erica for my whole life.  While I've always known it, I've only somewhat recently been wondering why- but while I recognize it, I'm not ready to fully explore it.  One day, though.

You can cry because roses have thorns...

...or you can smile because thorns have roses.

Cheesy?  Yeah.  Helping me keep a (partial) smile on my face?  ...Yeah.

This past summer, I worked an internship that really pushed me in my growth as a person more than I expected.  It went beyond the challenge of a job and doing things I was unfamiliar with to really making me question who I was, what I wanted to do with my life, and how I chose to interact with the world around me.  Without going into too much detail about my daily processes at the internship, I can see that it was preparing me for a big life change.

Ultimately, I was inspired to start my One Good Thing a Day journal (lovingly called my Ogtad).  It's basically just what its name says: a journal that I write in at the end of each day, capturing at least one good thing about the day or something that I'm grateful for.  Some days are incredibly easy, and some days make me really think.  This past week has been an extreme exercise in finding something good about each day, forcing me to recall the very core of the good things in my life: things as simple as a loving family, incredible friends, a place to live-- and an extra place to live when that first one falls through.

Upon starting my journal, I really understood that if I were to totally commit to this project, I had to change my outlook on life and how I handle situations and issues.  A year ago, I would not be able to be sitting here calmly typing this out while reflecting on the past week, and even the entire past semester.  I would be in tears somewhere, angry and unable to handle it on my own.  This is not to say that I've been handling everything on my own lately-- I've been accepting help when I need it, and making sure I recognize my gratefulness for it.  But just since this summer, my decision to face everything with a positive outlook and calm state of mind has been a true test of my willpower and determination to live a better life.

I think I'm doing okay.

Change isn't something that I take kindly to.  Any little blip in my normal pattern of living tends to throw me for a serious loop, but it's not a healthy way to live, and I'm ready to change it.  I've been ready to change it.  While I've been seriously distressed lately, I'm proud of myself and maybe, just maybe, even able to be a little grateful for this test of my new "skills."

I've learned that I'm capable, have confidence where I thought I had none, and can control my thoughts and actions to reflect the way of life that I want to live.  Of course, I have days that are better than others, and days when I'm only hanging onto this new philosophy by a thread.  But I'm getting better.

Change is good, and I need to remember that.  Perfect (maudlin) example: In our apartment complex, there is a circle walkway with a circular garden of roses in the middle.  Roses bring me so much joy, and I often stop on my walk to class to appreciate this little garden full of beautiful roses.  Walking to class today, though, stopped me short-- the roses were gone.  It took me a moment to realize that instead of being in the middle, they had been moved and replanted around the outside of the entire circular walkway.  I was immediately upset by the change-- how dare someone move "my" roses!  But upon pausing a moment to be calm, I came to realize that now the roses have more space to grow and bloom.  They can fuse into one enormous, circular rose bush, instead of being cramped and constantly pruned in the middle as they previously were.  What I took away from this was, change helps growth.


I am changing, I am growing.  I am roses.

Leap, and the net will appear.

I'm starting a blog.

Obviously.

It's something that's always been in the back of my mind, something I've always thought about.  Often, I would fantasize entire posts in my head, have the wording just right, and ultimately decide that these little gems of wisdom that I manage to think up are nothing more than shiny things that momentarily distract me from the dull reality that is my life.

But my life is only as dull as I make it, and lately, I've decided that I'm not okay with not experiencing life. For the last few weeks, I've truly been stretching myself in the way that I act and think, and even if no one out of the 7 billion people on this planet ever read a word of this blog, I stepped out of the shadows and created it and wrote in it, and I'm proud of myself for doing that.  I've been hiding inside of myself for too long.  At the end of the day, what makes me truly happy is writing and exploring my own psyche by figuring out the precise words to capture what makes me, me.

My blog title comes from something my sixth grade reading teacher, Mrs. Mary North, had posted on a bulletin board in the back of our classroom.  Writers read and readers write.  There should probably be a comma in there, but it looks prettier without it.  She also wrote it in a journal that she gave me later and encouraged me to take hold of my dream of being an author.  In the years since then, I've written countless pieces of prose and poetry, but have always been uncomfortable sharing them for fear of being judged, or worse, criticized.

I'm not afraid anymore.

I can't promise that I'll post often, or that what I manage to post will make any sense.  I can't promise that anyone who does bother to read will agree with me, or find me funny or relevant or even a good writer.  But I can promise myself that I am worth something, and that I am capable.  Of what, I'm not entirely sure yet.  But I am capable.

I'm leaping, and I'm confident my net will appear.  Just not sure what form that net will take.