Three things.

I own a piano, a guitar, a clarinet, a djembe, a tambourine, a violin, and a banjo. How many of these instruments can I play? I mean, really play? None.

Piano is probably as good as I get, and that's only because I took 10 years of lessons. Right now I can play a song and a half of original material, and 1/4 of Canon in D by heart. I can also sight-read simple sheet music. But that's it. That's the extent of my musical expertise.

Every piano teacher I had informed both my mother and myself that I was very musically talented-that I wasgifted. But sadly, most of the 10 years I took piano lessons, I failed to practice regularly, or even at all. And today, the same story is true. I am capable of playing even less today than I could 9 years ago when I quit playing. And since knowing how to play piano wasn't enough, at age 16 I bought a guitar- convincing myself that since it was so much more portable than a piano, I would absolutely learn to master it and would play it wherever I went. Eleven years later, I still know the same 5 chords I knew back then. My violin I played for a semester in college- "Applied Violin" (easy 'A'). My clarinet I played 5th-8th grade and one summer in college in order to pass the time while my dad rebuilt my 94' Altima. The banjo I bought off Craigslist I gave up on after a week and a 1/2. The tambourine and djembe I shake and beat every now and then but mostly haven't a clue what I'm doing. And what did I almost purchase at Barnes and Noble the other day? Why- a harmonica of course!

Because I am a lover of music- and also partially because I grew up being taught that "Tomlinsons are musicians"- I want to excel at all of them. i want ot be able to jump from piano to violin to clarinet to djembe to tambourine to banjo to guitar and be able to excel at playing them ALL. So instead, I continue to collect various instruments, thinking, "Oh this is the one I'll really practice and learn and master. "

And I master none.

They all sit in my closets or corners collecting dust, waiting for the promise of mastery to finally take place. And the thing is, I don't just do this with instruments- I do this in virtually every area of life. I want to do everything- to master everything- to experience everything.

And instead I accomplish nothing at all.

My passionate desire to touch the world, to make a difference in every capacity for every human being in every situation every second of the day- results in my being entirely ineffectual.

I went to school to study Psychology. But then I decided I'd rather write and switched to English, but then decided I wasn't so passionate about writing when forced to do it- so I switched back to Psychology. And although I greatly enjoyed studying Psychology, I decided I didn't feel like becoming a counselor as I had planned at first--and it seemed that's what all Psych majors planned to do. So I decided to become a teacher, and switched my major to Education, because teachers seemed to me to be some of the most influential people on earth. But after one semester as an English major and barely passing my Education courses, I dropped that major as well. This not only due to my poor course grades, but also because my Education professor looked me straight in the eye one day and told me point blank that I needed to choose a professsion involving helping people, not teaching people, as that was clearly where my passion lie.

So back to Psychology/Sociology I went. It took me 4 years to complete my college degree-which seems normal, except that it was supposed to only take me 3. It was due to my constant changing of majors/dropping classes that I ended up taking 4 years-at 18-19 hours a semester plus Jan-term plus a summer school session. Why? Because I wanted to do everything. I wrote and edited for our collegiate newspaper all four years. I wanted to be a counselor- then a writer- then a teacher- then a . . . I don't know that I ever did really figure it out. I wanted to understand people's minds, to understand them that I may better serve them. But somehow I got lost along the way, wanting to be everything-to do everything- and instead seemed to do nothing at all.

I put my hand in every possible venture- from rebuilding New Orleans post-Katrina, to working at a group home in southwest Missorui, to clean water well projects in Africa and Haiti to sex slaves in India to victims of domestic violence in Northwest Arkansas. I want to do it all. I regularly search out volunteer opportunities with United Way, Habitat for Humanity, etc. I sign up for countless projects and promise my time and efforts to all kinds of people and organizations and end up doing . . .not much.

I work up to 60 hours a week at a mental health facility and spend 1/2 the day making lists of things I need to get accomplished. Then I re-write my lists and add more things. Then I add ridiculous things like, "take off old nail polish" just so I can cross it off the list and feel like I actually accomplished something.

* * * * *

The other day I found a journal entry from March of 2010. I was listening to some sort of sermon or inspirational speech or something and had taken notes on it.

"What FEEDS YOUR SOUL?"

And I responded with the following list:

*Music! Playing, listening, writing

*Writing

*The Abba Water Project

Three things. Not 75. Three. And you know what? Those are the same three things I am still most passionate about. There is nothing about working in a for-profit mental health institution on that list. Nothing about working 60 hours and sleeping 4-5 hours a night and being sick non-stop because I am overcomitting myself. Nothing about writing grants for domestic abuse rehabilitation, or volunteering at a thrift store every Wednesday in between shifts, or trying to do all of the above while also raising $10,000 for a future water project.

Here's to Three Things. I cannot do it all. I can not even do a lot of it. But I can do something. I can write. I can promote clean water. I can expound on those 5 chords I know. And I can continue to love on the unlovable until perhaps I narrow the three things down to one- that I may master.

15. October. 2011

Abbie said I should write things down.

So I am trying to do as she says, since she is a wise soul.

But writing things down isn't as simple as it once was and I'm not sure why.

Maybe because I'm not as brave these days.

Maybe because I don't like the idea of seeing my thoughts and worries and FEAR on paper

and having to face the fact that they are real.

I'm sad tonight.

And I'm trying to be strong but I feel like a pansy and a needy, lost, confused soul who

once was something quite beautiful and rare and coveted after. . .

And who somehow became an insecure and desperate shadow of what once was.

So I live on a dining room floor. . .

6 June 2011
I am sitting in bed with Allison Pederson ("AP"). I just got off work at "Verma" Health Hospital for my second shift. She reads a novel while I write.
Fayetteville, Arkansas is a good place. When I graduated from SBU in 2007 with a Psych/Soc. degree I certainly did not see myself working at a mental health institute in Northwest Arkansas.
But here I am.
I came here for a boy (something I swore I would never do) and about two months after the move, it didn't work out. I had just secured a job, finally had full benefits, was stuck to a lease, and knew next to no one. Mom, along with everyone else I know, automatically assumed I would move back home to St. Louis. After all, did I have a good enough reason to stay?
I certainly felt I had several very good reasons not to stay. However, for once in my life I figured when things got hard, rather than run and hide, I would stay and tough it out.
Within my first month of working at Verma I was kicked, spat upon, pinched, punched, vomited on, and had desks, chairs, trashcans and other miscellaneous items thrown at my head. I make $5,000 less annually than I did at my previous job and most of the time I feel entirely under appreciated by upper management.
I developed severe stomach problems due to anxiety (I attribute this entirely to the stress of my workplace, and the never ending love/hate saga between a co-worker and I). My wonderful 94' Nissan ceased to start and I bummed rides for three months before giving in and taking out a small loan in order to get it repaired. My roommate and I had a major miscommunication during which she packed up and moved out while I was in Africa. I attempted a long-distance relationship which to be completely honest was entirely disastrous. I fell asleep with a lit candle and awoke to a burning flame 4 feet high ON MY PILLOW and proceeded to almost burn my entire apartment complex down, but successfully put the flame out with a blanket. I only lost my cot, a pair of wool socks, a pair of Adidas pants, a backpack, a memory foam pillow, and 4 square feet of carpet to the fire.
It's funny, now that I read back on the last almost 2 years I've spent in Arkansas; it really doesn't seem as devastating as it actually felt at the time. . . it's even humorous:) But let me tell you--I was quitemiserable at the time. I have pretty much just finished throwing myself a nearly 2-year why-the-heck-did-I-freaking-move-to-Arkansas-and-why-did-I-think-ANY-of-those-relationships-were-a-good-idea!? pity party.
Party's over.
I live in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Going on two years. And how do I know I've finally come to embrace this? I got Arkansas license plates :) True story.
This weekend as I was laying atop a cliff overlooking the blue-green Mulberry River after camping at a music festival with some of my closest friends and seeing MUMFORD AND SONS LIVE IN CONCERT. . . I realized, for the first time in a long time, that life is good.
Life. In Arkansas. Is good.
Did it take me a while to get here? Absolutely. Did it come easy? Not at all. Was it painful? Probably the worst yet.

I am here, In Fayetteville, Arkansas. I moved here for a boy. It didn't work out. I stayed here for a job. I stayed here for insurance. I stayed here because I got tired of running away from difficult situations. . . And then, I just stayed.

I recently went on a trip to what I believe is one of (if the THE) most beautiful place I have ever been. I was with some of my very favorite people in the world. And although the trip and the people and the place and the experience was greatly enjoyed, I realized something while there that up until now I was entirely unaware of.

I am not stuck in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I CHOOSE Fayetteville, Arkansas.

I choose 4001 West Sycamore, Apt. 13. I choose a 1994 Nissan Altima. I choose to spend eight plus hours a day with eleven 3rd-5th graders at an outpatient Therapeutic Day Treatment Facility. And some days, I choose to leave that facility and rather than go home, or go out, I choose to put in another 4-6 hours at an inpatient mental health hospital. I choose to write. I choose to paint, although I seriously lack talent. I choose to sing, out loud and often. I choose to play, although I own 5 instruments and am a master of none. I choose to be alone. . . rarely, and only for short amounts of time. But is my choice to be alone. I choose to hope--that one day life will make sense to me again. I choose to believe that one day I will know Hope again. I choose to love RELENTLESSLY. I choose to love with reckless abandon, regardless of my own well-being. I choose to laugh-often and heartily. I choose to smile so often the corners of my eyes swim in wrinkles at the age of 27. I choose to sleep on a palette of sleeping bags and quilts on the floor rather than purchase and move yet another bed that I may catch on fire. I choose to eat at a kitchen table made of two cardboard boxes.

I find great joy in coming to the realization that all I see before me and experience right now is not simply "the hand I was dealt," but rather, it is he life, the job, the people, the experience I have CHOSEN. Of all the places, of all the people, of all the careers, of all the possibilities. . . i am here.

And for that, I am entirely grateful.