Time is an illusion.

.... Lunchtime doubly so. - Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

This year is packed to the max. The penultimate has passed, and now all gears must run in overdrive. People who started college with me are now in the real world, in grad school, in careers, in Germany, etc. and whatnot and so forth. Meanwhile, I plow forward here in beautiful Fayetteville with a hazy future and a to-do list that could crush a toddler.

Yet, I have peace.

So much peace. The real kind. Tranquility in excess, I'd say, and I haven't even made it to yoga class. The Lord has been so good to calm my ragged mind and soothe my perfectly-capable-of-being-ridiculously-anxious soul.

I find it difficult to be worried in a hammock, similarly to how I believe it impossible to play a ukulele and be sad. Consider Tiny Tim, for crying out loud!

Time has been quite an intriguing commodity in my life. Some hours stretch out their legs and trample all over my ability to resist checking my watch, others pass too quickly to be noticed. Days and weeks breeze by, but the month is never-ending. I count down the days until fall break with an iPhone app with seemingly static numbers, yet deadlines approach with unceasing ferocity. 

So it goes. And goes. And goes. And goes some more. 

But someday the going will grow bored of my bubble of insanity. It will leave me for a spell, and I shall gaily contemplate the stillness around me with utmost admiration.

Until then, andiamo.

Andi-freakin-amo.

Age and its consequences.

As of late, particularly with graduations and summer weddings, my friends have frequently remarked on our age. We say we feel "old" and our teachers, parents, and everyone laugh hysterically. We selfie-obsessed millennials have less than a quarter century under our tackily rhinestoned belts and think that we've attained some semblance of wisdom via Twitter or an inspirational Tumblr.

I get it. We aren't ancient or anything.

But cut us some slack; it's something when 20+ Facebook friends get engaged over Christmas break and besties from high school have weddings and children. It may be a natural something, but it can be shocking.

In high school, we're all on some similar level. No one really knows what the hell is going on, and those of us who momentarily think we do are wrong. We have the same classes and see the same people. In college, it changes. Diversity flourishes; we are forced to make definitive choices on the daily. Some don't even do the college thing and instead dive directly into life. When I went home in May, I ran into several classmates (class of '09) with 2 or more children. Good for them, but I couldn't even fathom having a family at this point.

Those differences aren't negative, but rather something beautiful. We're blessed to have the opportunity to choose. Many people in many places simply don't; I acknowledge that.

Regardless, time has passed. In my older age, some things have definitively changed.


I'm more calm. 
Laugh as you might, but this is the truth. Though it was truly a different lifetime, I can still remember my spastic high school self. That more high-strung and dramatic version of me would not be handling all that goes on now very well.

Introversion has increased.
I really ought to redo the Myers-Briggs. When I took it at DLA back in 2007, I was wayyyyy on the extrovert side. I still am on that half, but certainly far closer to the middle. I enjoy my lonely time. My room is a haven. I don't constantly search for companions.

Far away future things seem plausible.
Marriage. Kids. Career. Health insurance. House payment. All these things that seem so adult will potentially start happening in the next 3-7 years. Wut.

I've finally accepted moving as a part of life.
When I was a kid, I cried when my parents wanted to build a new house and move. I refused to accept a change of home. Now, I'm semi-eager to find new digs in the coming years. It'll be great to live in other parts of the country and see how life is there. Nothing will lessen my dread of packing/moving, but the nesting/settling process that follows will be fun.

There's only hope.
The biggest change in my life from my former self is Jesus. Knowing Him has altered the fibers of my very weird being, and the repercussions reverberate though every moment of every day. I'm changed because it's no longer me me me, but the singular and glorious Him. I still fret and I still get down, but at the end of it, I'm not in control and I trust the One who is. So it's all good. It's all hope.


When I'm actually old, I'm fairly certain I'll be cool (or whatever lingo means "hip" in 50 years). I look forward to the prospect of being a grandma.. one who pranks her grandkids and destroys them at all games, but has the most delicious homemade snacks to help soothe their crying afterwards. The thought of tending a garden and playing Pinochle and Catan with other white-haired friends is exciting.

I hope the internet doesn't explode before then so I can look back at this blog and see my feelings as a bright-eyed, vivacious 22-year-old. I'm not full of catchy wit or artistic stories. I don't take mind-blowing photographs or post my own recipes (though someday that recipe thing will be real). But yet I'm here, pounding away at my recently coffee-soaked keyboard to bang out words that maybe 3 people will read.

But you know, that's alright. There are worse things than blogging mediocrity.
Someday, something nice might spring into type from my sandpaper fingers. Hopefully this silly site will catch it.

For now: Life is good.
That's worth recording.

Proof of consciousness.

My last blog was back in September. A crying shame, though my eyes are no excess degree of wet.

I have had many interesting, clever, and potentially captivating ideas for posts. Yet, blog I have not. My empty promises to publish leave me melancholy, trapped within a guilty shell. The walls of this prison are white with nothing but a flashing curser silently screaming the dismal truth of my rut. At the mere view of the Blogger icon, my fingers curl back, laden with anxiety, unprepared to fight through the jungle of self-prepared humiliation.

Why does this happen? This perpetuating, woeful cycle of failure. At first, it's just an innocently missed pledge to write. The next week the weight of procrastination makes it more difficult to start, and the following week is practically a joke. Eventually I begin to hope that everyone had forgotten any comment made on social media about blogging. In extreme bouts of guilt I momentarily wish they forget I have one at all...

What's the hold up?

Sometimes I claim I'm just too much of a perfectionist about it. 

That's not entirely true. Usually words spurt out of me like puss from a ripened pimple, splattering onto the page with a great and brutish force. I often edit for a while to save embarrassment created by great haste and the speed of fiercely passionate typing.

Sometimes I think I'm not inspired. 

But that's mostly code for my absentminded laziness. My to-do list gains momentum and intimidation factor, and I reason that my time cannot be spared for trivial self-expression. Plus, I strive to imitate He who created all, so within me there is generally something trying to bust its way out.

Sometimes I feel I have someone to impress. 

And that's just stupid. My identity is not housed beneath the fonts of this page nor is my value calculated by the +1s, likes, or retweets I may (but generally do not) receive.

So what then is this curse? Why is it powerful? What/Who is its source?

My guess is that the source's got two thumbs and the password to edit the words you're currently reading. 

Pride clogs the pores of creativity. Sloth binds the energy of fingers. Wrath draws the eyelids shut in sheer indignation. These deadly sins creep into my brain folds, preventing the needed escape of thoughts.

Blogs are glorified thoughts. Choose a classy theme and snap some high res photos, and the internet might call you a pro. I know mine is not tremendously consistant or detailed, but I'm quite thankful for the ones I took the time to compose. These blogs may not dazzle, and they certainly don't make the boys swoon. This page might vanish in some post-apocalyptic crash of the web. My posts are just sentences, composed somewhat quirkily for hardly any purpose at all. These words are an escape route for consciousness, proof that neurons are firing and that life persists.

And what a persistent life I lead. Since my last blog...

I marched with some dear senior friends at their last performance with the Razorback Marching Band.

I spent time with precious family and friends over the holidays.

I brunched with a bestie. (WHO GOT A FULBRIGHT AND IS MOVING TO GERMANY!)

I participated in a swanky rave dance party on a moving charter bus. Crowd surfing may or may not have also occurred.

I was massively blessed by an amazing visit from my high school band director (and honorary father) at our first spring concert.

I met someone who is an entirely graceful loser at chess (and all other games).

I organized a surprise double half-birthday party for some presh roomies.

I mailed it, jailed it, bailed it, flailed it, trailed it, quailed it, WAILED it, and totally snailed it with the most fabulous small group in all the land. We walked like trustworthy people and ripped everything within reach.

These still firing neurons give me a ridiculous appreciation for this time. For this silly blog. For the opportunity to share, write, pray, think, do, praise, move, shake, produce. For you, in this merciful reading of my nearly aimless expulsion of type. There is no reason to let the shadow of my own doubt darken the doorways to what could, and often should, be.

Here's to being less of a weirdo about planning and executing my blogposts.
Here's to a future of confidence and remembrance.
Here's to life.

And I don't know much, but I do know this

With a golden heart comes a rebel fist

But I can't help agreeing with those that would not quit.

Sunsets, proclamations, and my attempt at art.

God woke me up this morning, quite decidedly. I fell asleep reading a textbook, and though I set an alarm, I didn't set the other three I always set on my phone. My real alarm is far too easy to silence, as a slight touch will shush its blaring beeps. 

And yet I was gently awoken by the Father a few minutes before 8 (about 30 minutes later than I planned). I got up without sleepy haze and got ready quite normally. I was able to fill my water bottle and grab breakfast/snacks to go. I found a parking spot not too far from the first Route 56 bus stop on the lot, and the bus pulled up just as I was walking there. I made it to class with about two minutes to spare. 

And I praised my Lord for caring for me in even the smallest, most unnecessary ways. 

A life with trust in the Creator is so, so much less chaotic. And though I'm definitely bad at this trust, He teaches me amidst my everyday chaos. And to top, He paints it with beauty. 

Per esempio, when I am in a hurry to make a meeting and get somewhere, and I run out of my condo with a full, buzzing mind of to-do's, and THIS is what greets me:

Or when I'm in a massive hurry to get from Rogers to Fayetteville on Thursdays to be a bit less late to chapter, and I glance to the right and encounter a brilliant sunset, just chilling there in sight of 540. 

It may have been only slightly hazardous to take this while driving...

We worry. We stress. We overanalyze. We pity party. We freak. 

Every good gift, every perfect gift, comes from above. These gifts come down from the Father, the creator of the heavenly lights, in whose character there is no change at all. - James 1:17

And through it all, our Lord who loves us through our insanity is solid, unchanging, and beautiful. So very breath-snatchingly beautiful. 

Admittedly, He calls me beautiful too. And further admittedly, I have a seriously difficult time swallowing that Truth. The human in me does not want to hear it. But I suppose if He cares enough to make a common stretch of sky into something so glorious, He has something in store for me. Something... 

Last week the lady who did my hair asked what I wanted to do for a career. When I said I don't have life plans, she commented on my collectedness. I told her "I figure God has pretty good plans. That or I'll just die." She found that particularly hilarious.

I'm humbled by the sky. I'm amazed at its vibrance at dusk or dawn and the array of colors, the grandeur of billowing columns of cloud, the brevity of its remarkable displays. Yes yes yes, I understand it's all science and physics and light refraction and the atmosphere and all that nonsense. I do go to college for the edjahmahkashun. But all the textbooks in the world couldn't inspire this praise within me. Those cold, hard facts don't fill me with joy. An argument in perfect Chicago style could not bolster me up to face the challenges of this world. 

paint + sharpie on canvas, September 2012

Yet again, I must end this blog with deep gratitude. I'm blessed beyond all comprehension; what more shall I say? 

European travels, continued.

If I had to concisely sum up my European adventure thus far, I would use 2 words:
novel beauty.

It's novel to me at least. I honestly don't understand how these people take this day in and day out.. To stare out across the Apennines or the Alps or the rolling, gentle countryside with farms plotted brilliantly onto the sides of steep hills - and to somehow not go mad from its grandeur? Do they become numb to all this glorious creation? How could they stand to stop marveling at the Gothic elegance of the duomo in Milano or the incredible panorama of medieval Gubbio? (or Siena or Florence or most other Italian cities, for that matter..)

I know it's easy to jump the assumption that I have simply become numb to the beauty in my own home. But that's not completely true. I may not be working to keep my jaw up every moment of every day, but I still praise G-d for the intense beauty of the Arkansan landscape around the Ozark mountains on my drives home from Fayetteville. Or the gorgeous view when driving south on 540 when the leaves begin to change. Or climbing dad's ridiculous tower atop the knob and seeing the curve of the horizon. Or taking the bike trail in Fayetteville.

The European beauty here is.... Different. Very different. Age has a lot to do with it. I've walked the same uneven, narrow streets as Saint Anthony and Marinetti and Puccini and Mussolini and Caesar. Back at home I've done that with... Bill Clinton? And I'm not such a nostalgic Pastist to freak out over that, but it is something I consider. The times and events that these walls and streets have seen are so very different than those of infant America's. Those times have added something to those less-than-straight walls. Yes age. Yes wear. But also yes to a character incomparable to any American dream home.

I think back to Urbania, la casa mia nell'Italia. Those streets... Their beauty. I remember them well. I walked them daily, felt the cobblestone beneath my shoes, admired the pattern that took great care to construct. In some areas, the grass grows between them. Freely; not exterminated with some chemical to keep some austere evenness. What have those streets seen? Wars, sickness, death. Joy, love, flowers. Beautiful, beautiful flowers...

I do miss my Italia. That's not to say the rest of this journey hasn't had its surprising helpings of beauty. On the way to dinner in Switzerland the other night, we pulled over to get a good view of the snow-covered Alps. It was a moment I couldn't capture with my little camera, but it's one burned into my brain. Their grandeur, their crispness, even on a sunless, gray day. Admittedly, that was just one of many moments in which His glory shone through creation in a way that overtook me. It grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, seizing my attention and screaming at me the wondrous, creative nature of the King Who has and is my life.


It was like seeing the clouds seemingly yards above my head in atop the Apennines,

like seeing the view of a whole city from above,

like inhaling the clear, Italian mountain air and wondering why I'm here...

At some point during a long train ride, the Lord taught me to stop questioning, start praising, and enjoy. So I am. To Him goes the glory. To Him goes my heart. To Him goes all thanks and eternal thanks dipped in reverence and awe. What else shall I give? My life, my love, my heart, my gratitude, and now this time. This solitary, blessed time in motion, hopping between countries and viewing His handiwork in a novel, beautiful way.

The terms 'novel' and 'beauty' cannot be separated and still properly describe this experience. Where I've been is CERTAINLY not new, and pretty places exist on every continent. But for me, this experience has been beautiful in an original, soul-shocking way. The novel portion is mine; the beauty portion is His.

For now I'll happily take a serving of both.

Grazie; danke; thanks.

A long overdue update d'Italia

On a planet at which a day consists of 100 hours instead of 24, I would have blogged regularly in real time about my incredible journeys. Alas, this is not the case.

Ma - buona fortuna! Non ho dimenticato tutto.

My three weeks in Urbania certainly deserves detailed recount, but that could fill a week of intense blogging. Glimpses of Urbania will undoubtedly pop up in my posts; those people and that town is dear to me.

Per esempio: I remember one of my first couple of days there. I had a moment (one of many really) of a certain variety I call ‘crispness’. Vision legitimately seems better; the air is clear; the edges of trees and signs are sharp; surrounding sounds are not muffled. A sort of "ah ha" weird experiential thing. I can't control it, but for it I am ever-appreciative. Those times allow me to soak it all in: the shapes, smells, sounds, shades of pink and gray and blue in the cool and calm dusk on my walk home. I saw people sitting and sipping vino o caffé. Others were heading home too. I could hear talking near the doors of some places. Some sat out on their porches and just watched, sitting with their dogs. No one really ever seemed to be in a hurry there, at least not in the early evening.  

The weather was fabulous; I was actually cold the first few nights and had to learn the word for blanket (coperta). I think the first word I recall learning with my host family was spazzatura (trash can). There are a ton of useful words that fall through the cracks of class Italian. But also, a bunch of vocabulary I thought was way beyond me or not useful came in handy so many times. I was able to discuss social and economic issues with Armando the bus/taxi driver. He was one of my favorite people. The guy freaking punked me in italiano about seeing a golden eagle during one of our bird walks.

Allora, I have now graduated from buses to trains in my travels. I'm finally starting to get the hang of it! 3 trains later... 

I love utilizing the rail system, but the stations are stressful. The trains are peace, contemplation, scenery, (for the most part) security. The stations have beggars, confusion, rush, odor, (at least the feeing of) danger. These two are separated by a mere staircase, or sometimes no more than a threshold. But at the end of the ride you are forced to re-enter the chaos. You must pass through; there is no alternative way out. And then a different type of confusion hits. I entered Pisa a few days ago with just a few lines of directions on a screenshot of an email on how to find my hotel. There's no getting lost in this type of travel; you start lost and move toward understanding, or you fumble around clumsily with hopes of good luck.

How odd that is. To begin in a solitary, lost state of being. We come into life without a clue, helpless, tiny. But not lost, for at birth, there is no hurry to understand. Our surroundings are unimportant and there is nowhere to be. Some cases are more unfortunate, but for the most part, someone or many people are present right at the start to assure our well being. In traveling solo (sola in italiano), I have no human caregivers, no people hovering to attend to my every need. I have an overly heavy suitcase, a bit of money, a small understanding of italiano, and a wee bit of courage.

Sometimes, I'm given a map. How empowering that semi-glossy foldout can be! It’s the same when I find the dot signifying my current position on a big public map, especially after wandering around a city. With a map I sometimes gain renewed confidence. This from just an idea of location!

How important is location? Does it define us? Constrain us? Is it exhilarating or terrifying to lose your sense of it? Or both?

My current location? 

I'd say motion.

Locomotion? Locomotive?

Train? Training?

Training for what? 

It’s a bizarre feeling to have (practically) no responsibility, no schedule, and nowhere to be. If I attempt to think back to the last time that happened... I enter time warp. 

Before this there was Urbania: amazing, but busy with school and trips.

Before Urbania: home, but also moving out of my apt, packing, and seeing lots of family.

Before Salem/Fay: school and Ozone and Ozone and school. Even Christmas break was highly structured due to familial obligations, Hogwild, and Ozone whatnots.

Before junior year: camp, all summer except 2 weeks spent at national convention in CO.

Before that (2011) summer: school and band and school and school. Limited Christmas break freedom due to traveling and such.

Before sophomore year: Camp all summer except for a weekend spent in KY and a bit over a week in Salem cramming in every ounce of family time, cleaning, packing.

Before that (2010) summer: school and school and band and school. I don’t even remember Christmas break for freshman year... So perhaps I had time then. 

Before freshman year: INSANE summer of DLA, LIT-ing, CA for national FBLA competition, and prepping for college.

Before that (2009) summer: the non-stop jam-packed schedule of high school with band and clubs and schoolwork and several sports.

So.... yeah. It’s been a while. 

I wander down the streets of these gorgeous Italian cities with very little, if any, aim. 

I don’t have anyone for conversation. And it’s been sweet.

I can choose to get by on loneliness, or I can rejoice in intimacy with the Spirit, One that will never abandon me. One that has no language barriers. One that loves more than I can comprehend.

For now, I have no hope of human companionship for a few glorious days. 

So I will continue to wander, continue to pray, and continue to praise Him for all. 

Italia cominca!

Written May 29, 2012 (delay posting; forgive me)

a view of Urbania

A new experience is like having a child. 

It’s simultaneously 

challenging,

invigorating,

exhausting,

totally worth it.

Babies may cry constantly and do nothing but eat and poop, but they are beautiful. A baby is life at its most delicate and gentile state; a baby is a novel soul and a needy body. One must nurture it, attend to it, appreciate it, and at utmost - love it. 

The above mentioned at least somewhat approximates my feelings on new experiences. I’m smack dab in the middle of what is arguably my biggest so far, and it’s incredible. 

No, it isn’t mind-blowingly awesome just because it’s Italia. Sheesh, what a copout, amiright? Sure, people do come here for the good times, ridiculous food, and fine yet affordable wine at literally every caffè (which is synonymous with bar, but not in a raunchy American way). This time is awesome because it’s a departure from norm. Many people that know me have heard me say “I believe in drastic change.” It’s healthy to be ripped out of comfort and routine and monotony and safety; it’s glorious to depend fully on the Father in times of complete uncertainty and lostness. It’s certainly not an easy endeavor, but it pays dividends. 

For me? Sì, sono in Italia! 

I am living with a tremendously nice host family, signori Lucerna. I have my own tiny apartment thing separate but connected to the family; I have a kitchen(non-working sadly)/living room open area, a small bathroom, and a bedroom. It’s simple and presh beyond belief. The family speaks very little English, which is excellent for me!

Since I don’t live with other students, lack interwebz, and have yet to acquire a communication device, I am alone quite a bit when not in class. The Millikin people are very cool, and it would be sweet to get to know them better. But alone is good too. It’s another departure from my traditional over-connected, over-socially saturated lifestyle. America also moves so quickly. Things here are in a slower fashion; people go for relaxing strolls (“fare due [o quattro] passi” is the colloquial term), and old retired men hang out at the town center for many hours a day. It’s really awesome. I can feel myself take on their mentality. I find myself eating slower, basking in the natural beauty of the countryside, sitting in purposeful silence for contemplation and reading. These sadly get largely overlooked during my crazy American schedule. 

The classes I’m taking are fantastic. Today we went on a seriously impressively gorgeous 3-hour hike to look for birds and experience Italian nature for the Biology of Birds class. I took so many pictures, but none of them do the place justice. That kind of beauty cannot be captured, simple as that. My Italian conversation private lessons are somewhat challenging but so applicable. My Futurism, Fascism, and 20th Century Electro-Acoustic Music class is one of the most interesting courses I’ve taken so far. We are going to build some legit noisemakers and perform in their style at the end. 

another view of Urbania

UPDATE --> June 2, 2012

I have since found interwebz for home, which is convenient, and acquired a cheap cell phone. Want to text me? Facile! Tweet at me: @stephmac19

I have gone on another glorious nature walk with my bird class and will post pics to Facebook soon. Soooooo much beauty here. I think I might drown in it. 

Oh, and gelato is as good as everyone says.