Money Talks 

Money talks.

No. 

Money screams. 

It taunts and throws tantrums and and threatens just to get its way. Money belittles you for being human. It tries to silence and dismiss you for not agreeing with it. 

Money boasts. 

It boasts about how being close with it will make you a superior being. It tricks you into believing that you can embrace its godly power to stomp and crush anyone who stands in your way. It screams to anyone who will listen.

“I am important!”

“I am a untouchable!”

“Listen to me!”

It cries out in its loud,  about how important it is, making you think it takes precedence over everything. Making you temporarily forget community. 

Kindness. 

Dignity.

Money doesn’t talk. 

Money whispers. 

Money sneaks around behind closed doors and schemes with its sticky words. It attempts to distract your attention, like some small child, in the hopes that you won’t truly listen to what it is saying.  

Money makes you believe that it is acting selflessly in your best interest. 

But when you finally realize who money really is, you open your mouth and realize that you were so busy listening to Money’s words, that you forgot how to speak.

Rain

Saturday is the ending of a chapter.

I am excited because I am finally done with college, but I am also terrified. I am terrified because, for the first time in my entire life, I don’t know what is next in my life. Since kindergarten, I have always known there was more school coming, but now I have reached an end of the road. Like many before me, I have found myself in a post-graduate limbo; unsure of which step to take next and unable to turn back.

My blood feels like it is racing all the time. Unrestrained happiness fills my lungs, but it is constantly interrupted by fleeting feelings of sheer panic. What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Should I move away from all of my friends and family? I am not sure whether I want to run forever or hide under my covers from the world.

And so here I am. Sitting on my couch in the middle of a thunderstorm watching the raindrops fall on the window at 4 in the morning (I chose to hide under the blankets for now). The water glistens as the streetlight shines behind it.maxresdefault

I watch as they each drop decidedly flows downward; each taking its own path, but eventually meeting up again at the bottom of the window. Some of the drops flow hard and fast, while others make pauses and changes in direction. Occasionally, they will meet up with the stream of another. Sometimes they will split off. The only thing that can be assured is that they will eventually flow all the way down the glass.

I feel as though I am at the top of the glass, looking down at the endless amount of directions I can take to the bottom, but I don’t know where to start. It worries me that I won’t be able to control where I am going. Will I slide gently down the window or will I go hurtling towards to the bottom? I wonder if the raindrops worry about whether or not their path is how they planned it or if they ever compare themselves to the other raindrops.

And although it scares me that I don’t know what lies ahead, it’s oddly calming to know that the only direction I can go is forward. All I can hope for is that my life has a touch of fluidity as I move forward on my path.

I allow the panic to pass as I take a deep breath and smile. That is a worry for another time. For now, I think I will enjoy the rain as the calming pitter-patter that sends me off to sleep.

My Favorite Trio

In response to: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/trio/

 

Screen shot 2015-11-24 at 2.37.50 PM

What comes in threes? Well that is an easy one for me. I was blessed with being the only girl in a house run by boys. There was always that constant reminder that it was 1 against 3. Ostrich, Nini, and Jojo against me.

So it was only natural that they were the first to come to mind when I was asked to think of something that came in trios because this trio means the world to me.

 

 

 

Somethin Bout a Truck

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles.”

It is May 2012 and I have just finished my first year of college. My best friend and I had planned to road trip to her house in Boulder, Colorado and I would fly home from there.

IMG_0002

I remember that day so clearly. It was raining as we drove away from the campus and her car was packed tight with all of our belongings. We waved our school goodbye for and turned on the radio. Country, of course, because we were in Texas afterall and there is really no choice, but to listen to country music.

A deep, drawly voice came through the speakers.

Somethin bout a Truck

In a farmers field.

The smooth tone and sheer manliness immediately caught our attention. It was unfamiliar to both of us, but we liked it. The hard thing about not knowing a song, is not being able to sing along to it when you like it. We were upset that we couldn’t sing along, but with 15 hours left in the car, we were bound to hear it again.

We pressed on through west Texas. For those of you who have never driven through the panhandle, you’re not missing much. Dry, flat land scattered with hundred of oil drills. Nothing really exciting happened, but we did hear that song again. And again. And again.

And each time we would laugh with excitement.

By the time we got to the New Mexico border, we knew all of the words to the song.

We drove through Roswell (where we are 90% sure that we saw an alien life form) and Santa Fe (where I had my first taste of green chili). Along the way we stopped in the middle of the desert in New Mexico. It was the middle of the night and there were no cars on the road. You should have seen the stars. It was as though more were being painted on the sky right before our eyes. We sat by the road for a good 30 minutes and just stared up at the sky in silence. Too scared to break the fierce quiet of the night.

The next day we finally arrived in Colorado. We rolled down the Great Sand Dunes, peered over the edge of the Royal Gorge.

IMG_0065 IMG_0068 IMG_0074 IMG_0080

The mountains were unlike the ones that I had seen in the Pacific Northwest. They were sharp and violent, protruding out of the earth like a blade.

16 exhausting hours later, we finally arrived in Boulder. We probably slept for the next 24 hours, but I wouldn’t have wanted to get there any other way. We would have missed the terrifying New Mexican thunderstorms. We would have never experienced that awkward incident at the hotel in Santa Fe when they gave us the wrong key and we walked in on a young couple. We would have missed out on all 200 times that we heard Kip Moore’s “Somethin bout a truck.”

Sometimes it really is about the journey and the destination is just a sad end to it. Although the trip is long gone, those memories will always remain.

And it always makes me smile when I hear those words come on the radio.

Somethin bout a truck

It seems that Kip Moore had it right all along. There is something bout a truck.

Or, in our case, a Hyundai Tucson.

The Warmth of a Cold Day

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singin’ in the Rain.”

The house if filled with the aroma of fresh-baked bread in the oven, because there is always fresh bread on the most perfect of afternoons.

My mother sits with me on our living room couch as we watch the rain fall onto the grass outside. My brothers are not there, but we can hear them playing video games in their room. I can hear my father snoring from his room across the house. My mother and I talk about nothing and everything. We talk about what color the living room should be painted next and how she wishes she could see the world. Machu Picchu is first up on her list. We make plans to go together to Scandinavia and see the northern lights. Not anytime in the near future, but someday.

The timer beeps on the stove, telling us that our bread is ready and we decide that it would go well with some eggs. I put on some boots and head outside to our chicken coop. I do not run because there is no need to. I do not wear a coat because I like the rain. It feels refreshing against my face and the sting of cold in my cheeks makes me that much more appreciative of the warmth when I return inside.

I am greeted with the happy cluck-clucking of the hens as I enter the coop. They are hungry, as always. All of them hop down from their nests when I open the food container and pour some new food into their hanging dish. I seize the opportunity and run off with their eggs.

By the time I come inside, the bread has already been cut and my brothers have emerged from their den to steal a slice. I wash the eggs and crack a few into a pan on the stove. My favorite ones are the green ones because they remind me of Green Eggs and Ham, by Dr. Seuss. The book my mom read my and my brothers countless times when we were young. Somewhere between over-easy and over-medium, by dad wakes up from his nap to join. Nobody wants to miss out on fresh eggs and bread. My dad lists off projects that he wants to do around the property and my brothers sigh, knowing all too well that they will be his helpers.

After we have finished our meal, we put on a movie and sit on the couch with some hot cocoa. Even though the movie is playing, I can still hear the tap-tap of rain against the window behind us. I look around. My mom has dozed off while cuddling with my dad and youngest brother is texting his friends. There is nothing spectacular about days like this, and yet they are my favorite of days. Despite the cold outside, they are filled with warmth.

I smile and take a sip of my cocoa. How could anybody ever want more than this?