Running Broken

A great friend of mine once said, "Everyone spells relief differently." I would like to add that everyone (or at least I) spells relief differently at different times in their lives. At one time in my life I spelled relief by starving myself, overdosing on diet pills and studying incessantly to avoid having to use my brain for anything else. At another time I drank myself into my pain.

Today I ran. I ran and I ran and I ran. I told God I would stop when the pain stopped. When I knew I would no longer cry. When I knew it was no longer going to hurt. I was waiting for my Damascus moment. I ran and as I ran I listened to Hillsong United on Pandora on my iphone. It is strange that it began and ended with Hillsong. It is strange that his gift to me was what served as the instrument for my comfort. It is strange to me that everything is cyclical, God has always shown me that. As humans we assume everything is linear but its not, as life shows through the ever-changing seasons everything is cyclical, a mirror of eternity. Yet another hint that this life is not "it" that it is our first lap, our first time around a circle that will extend into forever. It is also interesting to me that this lap is what will set the tone for our eternity. Still even more fascinating is the fact that God doesn't mind when we stumble on this lap, as I have done so many times. He only cares that we run with endurance the race marked out for us.

So I am running. I ran for 7 and 1/2 miles...I had every intention of running until I reached my church. Somehow there was something very symbolic about running to my church. I realize its a flawed symbol. I knew I would arrive at my church and chances were there would be no one there...and my pastor most certainly wouldn't be there but it was the only way I knew of to run to God. As I was running my mother pulled up behind me, taking my sister to work. She asked me to turn around and head home, I shook my head and said I needed to run. She offered to pick me up and take me with her. I refused. I ran and I cried and I begged God. I begged God for a sign, a sign that I was going to be okay. As soon as I had prayed, I looked down and there lying in the middle of the road was a key. It was a gold key. With the letters "LSDA" on one side. To most people a key on the side of the road would mean nothing. To me it meant that God had me. A beautiful friend of mine went through a devastating divorce and was given a key necklace from a spiritual mentor of hers. The man who is now her husband has the last name of Key. Irony? Some might think so, but I think God knows better. Now obviously, my husband's last name will not be Key as well, but the key lying there meant something to me, simply because it reminded me that God came through for her, so why would He not do the same for me?

"23"

Today is my 23rd birthday. I woke up at 5:30am with bells on....tried to go back to bed for an hour and then decided that this was my body's birthday present to me. Apparently, I am now a morning person. This will of course take several days to be sure its not just some fluke, but I really think my body is trying to tell me something. Every year on my birthday I write out a list of goals for the year...for me birthdays are more important than New Year's in terms of setting goals and resolutions. My goal for 23 is to do something for someone else everyday. Whether its making my family breakfast in the morning, buying coffee for the person in line behind me, doing my Mom's laundry for once, or buying a nice card for someone who needs a pick me up I want to have a tangible, measurable way of becoming more selfless and less selfish.

Day 1-August 12, 2010

Woke up and made my parents crepes to thank them for "getting it on" 23 years and nine months ago so that I can be in existence today.

List of Goals for "23":

1. Do something selfless for someone else everyday

2. Get in the best shape of my life (i.e. stop eating garbage and get back in the gym).

3. Start dancing again. I did ballet for 14 years. I miss it tremendously.

4. Read every C.S. Lewis book ever written.

5. Get out of all credit card debt.

6. Really get my business off the ground and running.

7. Spend more time with my siblings. I used to take them out on dates regularly. Apparently my youngest brother Max has never been on one of these dates. I must rectify this situation.

8. Figure out what I want to do with my life. Its a rather broad goal I realize but my boyfriend always asks me what I want to do and I feel as though I don't have a concrete answer to that question.

9. Finish second year of Bible School.

10. Travel to someplace I've never been. I've been doing that every summer for the past three summers: London, Paris, Puerto Rico. Who knows maybe next summer will be Australia, Italy, Greece, Ireland....

How to Deal

Ever since I was a little girl I have handled stress the same way: I clean, I write, I dance, or I run.

When I'm confused, or sad, or uncertain I clean. People think I'm messy but in reality I'm just very rarely confused, sad or uncertain (or at least that's how I like to think of it). Cleaning is my way of handling things when I can't really pinpoint exactly what is bothering me and so in an effort to de-clutter my mind and discover the truth I de-clutter a room, drawer, closet, cabinet, etc. hoping that there will be a correlated enlightenment. I have a hard time throwing things a way which a psychoanalyst would probably tell me is related to an inability to get over things or a tendency to hold a grudge. This however, would be incorrect, I'm really very forgiving, I get over things really quickly....it does make me wonder sometimes though if like the things in my room I won't throw away if I just place issues inside a box, push them to the back of the closet of my mind and hope that they will remain comfortably hidden forever and magically dissipate into the dark.

Writing comes when I'm a little more certain of exactly what is bothering me. This doesn't mean I write about the situation, in fact it is rare that I do so. Instead I write about vague issues of the human condition, of how I deal with things, I write stories about frustrated 20 something year olds, I write poetry, and when its really bad I write a facebook note and then judge myself for it later.

Dancing is one that was lost when I went to college. For 14 years I danced and it was my way of release. It was the way I dealt when I was upset. Now, not having danced regularly in years its this vague memory of feeling peace and exuberance and frustration in one singular moment. Dancing has this interesting capacity to be compared to just about anything because of all it encapsulates. It is like life but it is also a brazen symbol of our mortality.

Running is always the one that frightens me the most. I run even when I'm not upset as well as when I am but there is something about running that brings everything to the surface. I can never cry when I run. There are so many times when I want to break down and just sit and sob on the side of the road...it never happens because my sweat seems to claim all of the moisture and precipitation my lacrimal glands would require to tear up. There is also this concept of not being truly able to stop. I can slow down, I can even pause, but when I run I like to run in the country and one cannot just stop on the side of a hill and expect to ever arrive at your destination.

So here I am, I am sitting in my bedroom, writing, in the midst of a massive cleaning spree, with my running shorts on, and an almost insuppressible desire to drive to my school to the giant empty dance studio in the gym and put on a pair of pointe shoes and just go at it. I think my real reason for using all of these methods to bring clarity is that each one makes me feel closer to God in a different way.

Cleaning--The old adage "cleanliness is next to godliness" isn't lost on me. I have always felt that cleaning is my humanistic rendering and poor interpretation of what God does when I let Him. My Mom regularly tells me that if I would just let her come in and "clean house" (which essentially means throwing away all of my clutter) I would never miss any of it. I always refuse saying that I might need it someday. I think God asks me that same question every day and typically I politely refuse or allow Him to clean a small "Lyndsey approved" portion.

Writing--When I write I can be the most naked and the most covered at the same time. You can write yourself into a veiled and shrouded uncertainty but you can also write yourself into the Light. Writing is both painful and therapeutic. I think this is what I love about writing: its duality. If I could no longer be a noun: Lyndsey and I had to be a verb I think I would want to be the verb: Writing.

Dancing--Nothing makes me closer to God than dancing. For some reason I always feel as though He is watching when I dance, like He finds some secret joy in watching me do something with passion. I think He looks at life like a dance.

Running--Because I typically run out doors there is this natural draw to the world surrounding me and an awe for its Creator but there is also something in the actual act of running. Something in the way your body gets a second wind after you've run a mile or so and have felt the cramping and exhaustion. Its so fascinating that our bodies can do this: that we can get better at something, that we can feel refreshing when a moment before we thought we were going to have to stop. There is this necessity to go on that I mentioned before. We must keep moving, keep running and pray for the second wind to come swiftly.

"Change Gonna Come"

Much has happened since I last wrote.

Things you should know:

1. I have a boyfriend. Yes, I know shocking isn't it?
2. I am currently braving this ever dangerous terrain known as "the job market." I have to say that I'm grateful. I have more options readily available than most but I'm rather indecisive as to what exactly it is that I want to do. More on that in a moment.
3. Perhaps due to points 1 and 2 above I've decided that my life needs a major makeover. I'm determined to get my spirituality, room, car, time, money, body, and family life back in order. So far, I have exactly zero of these in order but I'm trying which really must count for something.

A couple came into work tonight and the gentleman asked me why, if I had a degree I was waiting tables. Oddly enough this man worked retail for 25 years and also has a degree. I wanted to ask him what made waiting tables such a lowly vocation. I mean gosh, I get it, its not like I actually want to wait tables, but then again how many entrance levels jobs pay about $20/hour (depending on whether its a good tip night or a bad tip night that number can fluctuate)? Its strange really, the man's comment is an often verbalized annoyance that I convey, but when posited from an outside source its almost annoying. "Yes sir, I do realize that I just paid almost $100,000 for college and I'm serving you a Big A** Burger. If I knew the reason I have a degree and I'm still waiting tables I would probably not be waiting anymore." Soon, I have to believe that soon I will be able to make the cut and never wait another table so long as I live.

Throwing in the Towel

I have the day off tomorrow. I'm not entirely sure what I should do with myself. Free time freaks me out in a way. I wanted to do something fun tonight but most of my friends are busy. This is possibly the thing I hate the most about being single. Nights like tonight....Monday nights when I know I don't have to work the next day and I'm screwed because all of my friends have homework and work and boyfriends. Fast forward to Tuesday. Its 9:37am. On my day off. I've been folding and hanging clothes for the past 30 minutes and realizing that I have three wedding invitations for this summer already and zero non-female date options. One of my best friends since I was 4 made a comment the other day that really made sense to me. She said "I don't think you've ever been with anyone who's really matched you. They've fulfilled some aspect of what you're looking for but never the whole thing." I think that's true. Which makes me wonder if I'm just too picky. My mind set is that I just want one (1)...just one person in the entire world has to match my criteria and there are billions of people. So surely its not too much to ask that one person be attractive, intelligent, witty, flirtatious, a real Christian (that's the one that always gets me), loves to read, can cook, and values me for something more than all the others have. Accents are appreciated but not required (particularly, British, Australian, or Scottish). I want someone who loves people like I do. I want someone who sees their life extending into a generation beyond their own. I think if I die without leaving a legacy I have failed. If I die without hearing "well done good and faithful servant enter now into the joy of your Lord" I have failed more than I can bear. Where do these people live? I've decided to give up. I'm done. I'm done trying to find a boy and do mental gymnastics to attempt to fit him into the "mold" of Lyndsey husband material. Its what I call the Esther phase. Esther spent a year preparing for her King, not knowing if he would have her or not. On first glance that may seem kind of sexist but honestly Esther's identity did not rely on whether or not she was chosen. She didn't adorn herself like the other girls, she was herself and let her own natural beauty and intelligence shine through.

On Why I am a Gypsy

I am a gypsy. Let me explain. I may not be Romanian but I am a nomad. Well, in the lightest sense of the word. You see I've always lived in the same city...hardly the typical life of a gypsy who is supposed to travel from place to place. But my general nature is exploratory. I carry my world around with me in a series of bags. My Volkswagon beetle is full of books and clothes and random crap that I'm convinced someone could build a life out of if need be. My car is like an episode of Survivor Man. I feel the need to be prepared in any situation to just go...I'm still not sure why.

Here is another thing about gypsies: We hate to commit. That one word has caused me more grief than its worth. I am a chronic too late to commit type of a girl. I'll decide to go in head first after I've made some irreversible mistake in the relationship.

As you may presume, I am single. I considered naming this blog Single White Female Conquers Need for Man. However, I feared that my humor in turning my personal thoughts into a personal ad would be lost and no doubt some idiot would think I was seriously trying to catch attention by titling my blog as such. I also thought it seemed a bit standoffish. The truth is, eventually I want a guy, just not now. So I am sunshine gypsy, the joining of two of my many nicknames.

The Sunshine bit is my oldest and dearest nickname. My Dad and Mom call me Sunshine, after the song, "You are my Sunshine." The Gypsy part is relatively new, you see I have this strange affinity for earrings. Very large, ostentatious over the top earrings. And black eyeliner (this is indicated in the picture above). So when I got a job at a new restaurant back in October of '09 one of my trainers was convinced that I was a gypsy. To this day, that is what I'm called there. That and "little orange girl" by one of the cooks because I'm tan.

This is an experiment. An experiment because I am not entirely sure what I am going to say or what I am trying to accomplish but merely because I love to write and I find it therapeutic. I feel going into something not knowing what you want out of it is very gypsy-esque so its fits.