Trains

I have found myself working for the summer, which is truely a wonderful thing for my bank account. I'm putting my recently acquired knowledge and skills to use at a local factory. No, I am not teaching anyone there to sing. I am instead shipping boxes and boxes of contacts. Those plastic things that millions of people put in their eyes are made at a factory not too far from my house, at which I have found employment. The wonderful thing about a factory is that it is loud; meaning I can sing to myself all day and no one notices. Putting my skills to use for the entertainment of...myself.

This job is truely an eye opening experience (no pun intended) on a variety of levels. Ah yes, at times it can be monotonous, and you start to see things that aren't really there, but I'm sure that happens to everyone. To make the time pass, I've been trying to keep track of my trains of thought. Where does my mind wander to occupy the time? I kept a pen and paper nearby all day to jot down my trains, and as I read it back to myself in the car I realized...well,  I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

Work begins at 6:30am. One thing I learned through student-teaching is that early-morning-kayla is not as 'with it' as every-day-kayla (who is already deducted a few notches on the 'with-it' ladder). This equates that early-morning-kayla is significantly more scatterbrained and slow on the uptake than a normal functioning human being. Luckily for me, once the body and fingers are set to do the work, the mind is left to wander.

Trains of thought started with me singing through the majority of "Rent" (the musical) through my head. Three times. Sure, I skipped some of the songs that I didn't know as well, and then there were others (those defining Rent songs like "Seasons of Love" and "Take Me or Leave Me") that were on 'repeat' for a time on my mental playlist. This is Kayla at 6:30 in the morning. Kayla hasn't been a musical junkie since freshman year of college, furthering the theory that early-morning-kayla is a completely different persona all together. Needless to say I started thinking about what it would be like to become a character on a stage again, something I used to find pleasure in doing, now the thought appalls me {I'll have to write another blog as to why}. However, my persona this morning had no qualms with envisioning myself as Mimi Marquez, flailing over railings in sky blue hot pants and howling at the moon. Of course, I was also envisioning myself several skin tones darker, as anyone with a background with Rent would realize the impossibility of me ever performing as Mimi. But hey, that's what daydreams are for. Moving on...

I work at a desk that is next to conveyor belts. Truly, Henry Ford was a genius for that whole assembly line system of things. I'm at the desk and continually watch bins of contacts float past me, while I place the packages to be shipped on the conveyor belt beneath it. From the angle I sit at the bins of contacts turn a corner, kind of like a roller coaster... but for contacts. I started thinking about roller coasters, or what it would be like to shrink myself like Miss Frizzle did with her students on the Magic School Bus and hop in one of the bins with the contacts. I further progressed to write an entire episode of "the Magic School Bus", with the kids exploring what it would be like at my factory, of course with a ride on the contact-conveyor-belt-roller-coaster to finish the episode.Then if I got to do that?! I'd get to float around the entire factory, up and down, twisting and turning on these conveyor belts and that definitely would have been more fun that packing boxes. Literally these conveyor belts are at ground level in some places, and then only mere feet away from the ceiling at other points. We're talkin' one massive roller coaster.

I talk to the customers. In my head of course. I say "thank you" to those customers who purchase boxes of contacts as opposed to singlets (no, not wrestling singlets, singlet packages of contacts). You see, if someone buys just a box of contacts I can put it in yet anther box and go. But the singlets have to be wrapped in foam, and then taped and secured, and it basically throws off my groove. At 6:30 in the mornin', this girl don't like her groove to be thrown. This also progresses on to my game. Yes, I made a game for myself. The things the mind can do to keep itself occupied.

I ship contacts through UPS, meaning after I have packaged up the contacts all nice and pretty, I get to put the UPS label on it. Most of the label is just little black dots and lines and things I can't make sense of, except for two letters, indicating which state the package is going to. So far, California is winning with Kansas a close second. I've also found with each state that pops out, my mind automatically associates a memory or a person, or a person and memory. For example, every time New Jersey pops out I think of Rebecca, a dear friend who is from there and how her stories of being so close to NYC made me jealous. Or how Louisiana makes me think of Amber from 5th grade, our one student who moved to my elementary school from Louisiana and we all thought she was the coolest thing. Many of them make me smile, like Oklahoma, Maryland, Connecticut, Washington. As I print and stick the labels I shoot up a quick prayer for the memory and person that is called to mind. I'm actually even impressed with myself as there are very few states that I have no association with. Anyone out there have associations with Oregon, Mississippi, Montana, Wyoming, or the Dakotas?

 The boxes and I occasionally get into scuffles. Luckily for me I have a height factor, but these little buggers (literally, 6x4 inch boxes) have some nasty tricks up their sleeve. I already have three fingers in rehab from cardboard cuts. As imagined, these are worse than paper cuts. Longer, redder, and more painful. What hurts the worst is that they're normally a blow to the self-esteem too. Just when you think you've tackled that box and have it pinned down, it comes back out and pops you one, slicing your skin on the way. Then you're left thinking "how did I let that scrawny little box get the best of me? How could I have let my guard down?" Within two minutes you move on to the next, self-esteem fully restored and the mind back to wandering.

I was observing the culture of "factory" today. It's this busy, yet chill culture, and it's exceedingly diverse too. My mental train took a detour as to what other factories might look like, not just contact factories. Mr. Rodgers used to do segments of how various products were made, and he would show footage of factories on his show. The one I will never forget is the clip from the crayola factory. As I was packing contacts, I began to think about the Crayola factory and what it would be like to work there. The first thing that popped in my head was unicorns and sparkles. Literally. Don't act surprised. I can't help these things, they just pop up! After I spent some time with the unicorns, I thought about walking around the crayola factory in white all day and having people color me all day long...I'd come home a different piece of art every day.

The final train that fills the missing pieces of track, the mortar that fills in all the empty spaces has to do with what I will be doing in two short months. Boy, are those thoughts exciting, exhilarating, energetic, and blissful. You can find out more here about what I will be doing. Feel free to follow along and keep updated.

As I said before, I'm allowing you to draw your own conclusions. You can bet your bippy that there will be more to come, too.

Living Death

College was a time when I had a lot of conversations. College was a time when I had well, a lot of things. As far as conversations are concerned there was one time when I was surprised by a friend of mine who popped in my room just for a brief chat. This chat ended up being two hours long. Now, I had had many an extended conversation with this young {and beautiful} lady before, but for some reason this particular conversation is crystal clear in my memory. Our topic of conversation was death, good-byes, and faith... always something spiritual. I was going through a time of loss and mourning and was in some rut of trying to figure out life or something. For the time that I was going through I was disturbed that I still had found it harder to say "goodbye" than the final "goodbye". It was then that we proceeded to discuss goodbyes as living deaths. This is due to the fact that while you are still saying goodbye to a person, to a relationship, both you and they still have to live. You have to let go, living with the potential of what could be. Where death is involved, it' over, your time is up.

Sorry so morbid. This conversation has been replaying in my mind throughout the past few days as I close the era of college and now am forced to progress onto the real world. So many more conversations have been had about my inability to say goodbye, why it's so hard, etc. and I've come to the conclusion that it's just the way it is. If it's one thing I'm pessimistic about, let it be closure. Being the type of person I am, I wonder about potential, if things were lived up to, and if there was any way possible to make "what was" better. But it's still this crazy balance because I am so in love with the times that were had, trying to keep them fresh and alive is like a full-time job. I guess I'll be taking these next few months to figure all of that out.

I know I'm biased, but I really and truely have the greatest friends in the world. In only three years they have taught me how to live, shared happy life and broken life with me, and most importantly, still continue to love. There's so much more I could say about them but then that might get creepy. I'm sure by the end of the summer you'll be hearing some stories and memories.

Music is powerful and to finish out the year I compiled a mix CD with various suggestions of loved ones, representing things they had gone through throughout this past year, or that represent where they are in life right now. I too contributed to this, the song representing me being "The Call" by Regina Spektor<3. I feel obligated to share the below clip with you because not only is it the song, it's also being sung by the PS22 choir. I don't know if you know anything about PS22, but whatever this guy is doing with these kids--it's workin'.  It's the beauty of music education, people. I don't know if I could have found a better clip to represent :)

A Creation

Oh the thinks you can think, think and wonder and dream far and wide as you dare! When your thinks have run dry, in the blink of an eye, there's another think there!

Perhaps one of my favorite philosophers ever is Dr. Seuss. My favorite creations of all time are those that are timeless. Dr. Seuss is a master at creating these wonderful diddys that kids love and adore, yet they actually challenge and inspire an adult audience. I recently had a Dr. Seuss book read to me and I began to cry as I thought about how all of the language, full of odds and ends, real words and not-so-real-words communicated to every soul that was present.

It shouldn’t be a secret. I love to create things. I have art projects from sixth grade still hanging up in my bedroom at home. I still have crushed flowers from a walk I took in middle school in a dresser drawer, crushed under magazines, waiting to be used for the right ‘project’. Sometimes for fun I just wander through Michael's and A.C. Moore Craft stores just to feel the inspiration that is leaked into the air (usually these outings are not good for my wallet). We as humans are constantly creating. I know that for me I don’t feel fulfilled if I’m not creating, cooking, drawing, building, expressing something. We were meant to be expressive people, we were created this way, perhaps because we as people were created. 

I myself am a creation; continually in the works, never to be fully completed or fully perfected until death. Weird, right? What kind of creation is never-finished? If I was an investment, I would be a terrible one because I would never become fully profitable.

Humans are the most complex things ever. Think about it. We got these genetics, personalities, neurons that connect things, and all these things like diseases and fire that can really screw us up {perhaps I have this fear of being burned alive…no biggie}. We are such high risks, us humans. Imagine now if you were given an assignment that entailed working on one project for your entire life; from the age of two until you die. It can be a canvas, a sculpture, a garden. What are the chances that some frustration would come along the way, some feelings of wanting to give up? Feelings of anxiety, of just wanting to be done? Now imagine that ‘project’ being you. A person, a human with all your complexities, risks, and the trickiest part of all…your free will and choice (there could be a whole nother blog post about free will vs. predestination and yadda yadda… I don’t have time for that today). For a large part of my life, this is how I viewed the world. I was a project, and I was my own project. I've spent a lot of time in trying to fix who I was, and as predicted there were many doubts, frustrations, and days of wanting to give up and quit along the way. I wanted to be this way, all the time and would hold these expectations that would continually allow me to fall under the category of “epic fail”. Newsflash: I realized that I am not my own creation. Yes, I have choices, but I didn’t make me. It takes quite a load off once the fullness of that statement is embodied. I have a Creator who is not going to get tired of me, tired of His projects. He's not giving up or ever walking away...something I continually did. We are each a canvas, project, each of a different style, color, and medium (some of us watercolors, oil paints, clay, fabrics). I can only imagine how overwhelmed I'm going to be when I get to see the Gallery.

To now live  knowing and accepting that I am a process, not a masterpiece is a very different take on life. I will never be a masterpiece because a masterpiece involves a finished product. I can only be fitted for life where I am in the process. What's to live for when you're perfect?

As far as personalities are concerned, I am an INFJ (in-if-juh if you try to read it as a word), and a hardcore one at that. If you have no idea what I am talking about, that is absolutely ok. If you’re interested in knowing and being a part, I encourage you to take a Myers-Briggs personality test here. For those of you who know your Myers Briggs, what are you? Who have you been created to be? 

{I know, it's kind of an oldie, and can be interpreted on several levels, but this song is exactly what I needed to hear when I needed it. Perhaps maybe you do too.}

Creation (noun)

1. the act of producing or causing to exist; the act of creating;  engendering.

2. the fact of being created.

3. something that is or has been created.

A Daughter

There is no handbook for being a good daughter. In school they tell you what to do and you progressively learn how to succeed. Similarly, you progressively learn how to be a good friend, and you actually receive a manual as to "how to be a sister". (If you've happened to misplaced your copy you always have a back-up encoded in your DNA). As I truely think about what it means to be a daughter, the only thing that comes to mind is that being a daughter means that you belong to someone. Being a daughter means that I came from somewhere. 

I am a daughter. I have some of my mom and some of my dad genetically encoded into me. I have their characteristics developed in me, and I have their love and compassion shared in me. When I really get laughing I have this cackle laugh that sounds just like my mom. Every once and awhile I can hear some of my dad's jokes and sense of humor creep from my lips {then I try to quickly suck it back in, but usually by then the damage is done}. I can hear my dad's soothing tones and comfort exit my lips as I comfort friends and situations. Depending on the type of day that I've had, I can hear my moms sarcasm and sassiness through various things when I am quick to snap with my tongue. I have some of my mom and some of my dad genetically, developed, and shared in me. The good, the bad, the cute, and the ugly. {Mom would be quick to say that 'the ugly' is from my dad's side.}

I am the daughter of two wonderful people who have raised, cared, sacrificed, and every other verb you can possibly think of. They have done it all. They have done it with a heart that I can not know, and because it is so foreign I can't comprehend or even begin to appreciate them to the possible level that they deserve. That's not really fair, is it? Maybe, just maybe I will not be able to fully understand my role as a daughter until I have one of my own. Therefore, this blog post is not accurate or fully representative of what it means to be a daughter.

Looking at childhood art fascinates me. Kids naturally have a way of expressing themselves through their art classes and as I walk up and down five different elementary school hallways, I can't help but stop and admire the art that lines every hallway of every school. So much of my childhood creativity happened with crayons. These mish-mashes of imagination would end up on Daddy's desk for years, or decorate the refrigerator for quite a period of time. They were almost guaranteed to have a rainbow on them in some way shape or form. Always a rainbow in the sky, or a person in a rainbow dress, or even a rainbow colored soccer ball. The more color the better. {If that's not foreshadowing of my personality today, I don't know what is}
As a daughter of the King, I sometimes envision my twenty-something year old self running up to the Father figure with my accomplishments, my work of art, with the best that I have. When I really step back and look they are mere scribblings, masterpieces of finger-painting, abstract and colored out of the lines, nothing to be proud of. What does the Father do? They are proudly displayed on His refrigerator {and what a huge thing that would be... can you fathom all the different kinds of food goin' on up in there? Koshary, chow mein, chili con carne, hamburgers. There I go again, thinking about food...} No matter how old we are, or how much experience we have, anything we bring will be that of childish quality, for we will always be His children. And He will always be the Father who proudly displays these tokens of His children.

I have this student who talks. She talks a lot. She also talks at this incredibly slow pace and stutters over her words. Therefore, it takes her a solid 30 seconds to spit out two sentences. To top things off, the majority of the time the sentences which she speaks has absolutely nothing to do with music, the flute, or what we're talking about in any way. It is actually quite comical in a way. As I think about the patience and the level of listening that has to occur with this student, it is a perfect image of what the Father does for us. He is the one who always patiently listens to our babbeling (ranting, venting, begging, complaining, moaning, whining...admit it) that has nothing to do with the master plan. What a Dad. 

I guess instead of deciphering what it means to be a daughter, to really get a better picture means analyzing where one comes from. See, if daughters come from somewhere, that means that they are somewhat defined by who they come from. It is also important for daughters to realize where they truely came from. They come from the One who will always provide this.

daughter (noun)

1. a female child or person in relation to her parents.

2. any female descendant.

3. a person related as if by the ties binding daughter to parent: daughter of the church.

4. anything personified as female and considered with respect to its origin: The United States is the daughter of the13 colonies.

5. an isotope formed by radioactive decay of another isotope.

A Sister

 "Annnnnd in the corner, we have the one, the only, Jaguar!" My brothers prepubescent voice chirped as he bounced on the couch. I stood in my corner, prowling low to the ground, allowing the spirit of the Jaguar to enter my body, adapting the ferociousness, I let a wimpy growl escape my teeth. "Annnnnd in the other corner we have Ballerina!"--there stood my sister, who raised both her arms above her head, forming a nice oval shape, and as gracefully as a six year old can twirl on their tippy toes, she spun around, presenting herself to the "crowd". Nick, still bouncing away on the couch at the meer age of four counted us down to the 'fight'. The go was given and it only took two quick steps before we faced off in the middle of the family room. Inches away from each other I tapped her shoulder and she grabbed my wrist. Now--I would like to preface that I've always been a lover, not a fighter, and even though the Power Rangers looked so incredibly cool fighting off those bad guys, when it came to combating my siblings, I didn't have the heart to do it. Within seconds my sister and I broke into our 'fighting ritual' which was simply just kicking each others knees like some awkward 1950's jive. Ah yes, the magic of imagination. For while I can envision myself in that yellow Power Ranger suit using my awesome blade blaster to ward off those creepy things in spandex, physically acting it out in my family room was not the wisest of ideas. Regardless, lots of imaginative times were had by all.

Perhaps I should introduce you to those wonderful beings whom I call my siblings. The boy is Nick. Nicholas William to be exact and he is currently a junior in high school. He is the baby of the family who currently lives at home with the parents. He is incredibly skilled at any sport and finds interests in playing the drums, eating food, and learning about food, eating protein bars, and shopping for food. He is also very skilled at imitating. As kids we would call it being a "copy cat" but as he has aged his skill has developed into some useful entertainment. Nick is an entertaining kid who can be pretty shy at school, but takes his main stage performance at the dinner table every night.

The girl is Erica. Erica Jo, who also goes by 'jo-jo', 'EJ', 'Eeej', or 'Beav' (short for beaver). She is the classic middle child who is currently a sophomore theater major at Liberty University. She is incredibly skilled at anything theater, particularly dancing, singing, acting, procrastinating, and being a social butterfly. She also is the main reason for a lot of the hilarity that ensues in our household. Her hobbies include staying up exceedingly late, texting, being social, doing stuff with friends, being crazy with friends, watching youtube videos with friends, and making youtube videos with her sister.

That's the general gist of us. I'll allow Erica to fill you in on the part that I play, frankly because I may be a bit biased. Plus, Nick doesn't read this.

Is this post about being a sister, or my sister? Perhaps a little of both, because there is no one who has taught me how to be a sister better than my sister. As I envision Erica reading this I can hear this ferocious laughter bubbling out of her belly. It's the deep, throaty laugh that fits like puzzle pieces between the two of us. Once she starts I follow suit and unconsciously mimic her. Together, we get on a role of chortling back and forth, each filling the space that the other needs to breathe. There is no one who can make me laugh quite like my sister. Besides, she is utterly hilarious.

Sometimes I get frusterated because all I can remember are the simple memories of childhood; the simple memories of Erica and I sprawled across the floor with a deck of cards between the two of us. Erica and I would often duel each other in our favorite card game "spit". Of course, myself often winning. There was one time that she was giving me a run for my money. I was in third grade, laying on the shaggy brown carpet. Slowly but surely, my pile was getting bigger and bigger while Erica's was dwindling away (the point of the game is to lose your cards). Before I knew it, I had actually lost, Erica gloating in her victory. In my shock, discontent, and immaturity I threw down the pile of cards in front of her. "Fine!" I grumbled, "I hope your damn happy." It was one of those moments where you had to blink twice to believe what just happened. Both of her hands flew up to her mouth, and Erica's big blue eyes widened. My eyes widened too and my pale face became even paler.

"Im gunna tell mom."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"

"You just swore."

"No I didn't Erica, I hope you're happy, you won!"

We bickered back and forth, myself desperately trying to take my word back. I couldn't even believe that it had come out of my mouth. Eventually we settled it over another game of spit, by which point the simple slip had been forgotten. I must admit, it was not one of my proudest moments as a sister. Actually it's a moment that is vividly clear to me. I don't even know if Erica remembers (Erica--do you remember?). Sometimes, we sisters take secrets with us to the grave.

 

What I am finding with these identities and 'roles' is that there is a vast spectrum at which people can find themselves. Think about all the roles you posses in your life. Is there not a spectrum of the level of involvement and dedication you personally can bring to each one? Being a sister is a role that I will continue to have for the remainder of my life. I've heard of several people claiming that they have "non-existent siblings", or 'I have a brother who I haven't talked to in 5 years.' I am very aware that life sometimes has circumstances, but an estranged sibling is something that I never hope to be. Having siblings is this incredible blessing and opportunity in life for literally life-long relationships. In my case, we are each 2 years apart, meaning that I can barely remember life without my brother. As expected, there have certainly been harsh times amongst us Mini-kids, a dark ages of sorts. Between differences in development and academics, three separate eras of puberty, and the touchy personalities that each of us possesses, my parents have put up with a lot.

If people are to title themselves as 'sisters', I believe they must have shared experiences. I feel as though for true sisterhood, these must be experiences of every variety, not just the good ones. Certainly with Erica I have shared a variety of experiences, definitely not all positive experiences. I find it hard to call other people in my life 'sisters' merely because...well, I already have one. One of the things that I truely admire about the relationship between Erica and I is that we have had to go through thick and thin. It is truely in the nastiest and most negative of times that define our relationship as being 'sisters'. There are some experiences that you have with a sibling that you will never have with a friend. For as much as I love my bestest of friends, I wouldn't want to share with them the negative and hard times that my sister and I have had. That's just depressing. I am sure that as friendships grow there will be paralelles between friendship and sisterhood, but I have yet to experience that to the fullest capacity.

What does it mean to be a sister? First and foremost, I'm learning that you have to admit failure. Just as any role, it is impossible to be the perfect sister. Being a sister takes sacrificing. It is easy to dwell on the terrible actions and words that have occurred between siblings. Over the course of time and living with family, these things are bound to happen. However, just because they happen does not make one a bad sister or brother. It is a part of growing up and a part of childhood. To be a sister may mean to be bossy at times, but it also means significant educational moments. It means teaching the ways of high school and beyond, it means being that extra encouragement when they think they can't do something, and it sometimes means informing Nick about how to treat and deal with the crazy females. Being a sister means being a protector. This is not just true for the older sisters out there, middle and youngest children also have an equal responsibility of protection.

One of our family stories is that of my mom. The number of times we have heard this story is countless, yet it is still one that always comes up at the Thanksgiving dinner table. You see, as a child my mom and aunt would go to school together. They too were two years apart. Come fourth grade there came this beastly girl who would continually call my aunt "Peggy Piggy". As a protector, my mom told her to stop. Being a bully, the chick didn't. So instead my mom beat her up and broke her glasses. For any of you who know my mom, you know how atypical this is and actually what a hilarious visual this is. "Blood is thicker than water."

There was a point... more like a phase...in high school where Erica and I didn't get along so well. Young, immature high school drama often caused us to ignore each others existence in the hallways and do nothing but bicker at home. There was however one morning when Erica appeared at my band locker. She was visibly troubled. Shifty and with a crackly voice she explained to me that a fellow student had pinned her against the lockers with a message for me. (I'd love to share with you the bloody details, however this message was full of expletives and since  I've already 'cursed' once in this entry, I'll refrain. Don't want you thinkin' I'm a poor role model or anything...) Immediately I responded to proper authorities full of angst and anxiety, not for the threat against me but for the sake of my sister who was caught in the thick of it. This inward loyalty came to full avail as I sat through meetings and interviews the remainder of the day sorting out the dilemma. Afterwards I was left puzzled, left alone to baffle the response of my 'fight or flight' tendency. Did I naturally protect my sister? Well, by gum, I did. In that phase of life did I want to love my sister? Heck no. Was there something inside of me that didn't allow me to give up on her? Heck yes. These are the times that I never wish to experience with my greatest of friends, because although the benefit is nothing but wonderful now, they were excruciatingly painful in the process.

Needless to say, as the months and years have progressed and as we have aged and actually had to live lives apart from each other, the relationship between Erica and I has changed (for the better as we would both admit).

Being in college away from the family, it is easy to forget what role you still play. What does it mean to be a sister when you don't live with the family? What does it feel like to have an older sibling go off to college? That feeling, I will never know. Apparently it was painful for all involved. Sorry guys! Things are going to continually change and I'm honestly and truely looking forward to seeing how my relationship with my siblings is going to be molded over the upcoming years. This is a role to embrace full-throttle, nothing to be held back. And in case you didn't catch on, I massively love my sister, for as different as we are, she completes me. Love you, EJ!

{there was a time when Kayla and Erica were bored. so they made a movie just talking about life and childhood. hope you enjoy this glimpse of our relationship. it is certainly something special. August 2009}

Sister (noun)

1.a female offspring having both parents in common with another offspring; female sibling.

2.a female friend or protector regarded as a sister.

3.a thing regarded as feminine and associated as if by kinship with something else: The ships are sisters.

4.a female fellow member, as of a church.

5. Informal . a form of address used to a woman or girl, especially jocularly or contemptuously: "Listen, sister, you've had enough."

A Friend

Late June, 1997

It was my 8^th birthday and I ran to the car, sweaty, red-faced, and bearing my ‘purple people eaters’ uniform. What a better way to celebrate your birthday than to play soccer? Devouring our ‘treats’ myself and the rest of the team were kicking the extra soccer balls around while the parents chitchatted the night away. Sarah was on my team, and our parents were talking. We were begging, “pleeeeese, can we go swimming?” The parents, looking with mischievous looks on their faces gathered around the car. Sarah’s dad pulled out a backpack, a sleeping bag, and a pillow. Wait, what? A sleepover? A real live sleepover?! “You can go swimming at Kayla’s, and you can sleep there too” said Sarah’s dad. The two of us squealed, jumping, running, expounding any energy that we had left in us. Sarah and I were now officially best friends. We were going to have a sleepover, and sleepovers are what best friends do.

"Purple People Eaters" 1998

It was the biggest deal in the world. Our little minds had figured out that if I cut through my backyard and walked up the road behind us, I could get to Sarah’s house, all by myself. That means I wouldn’t have to rely on the parents for a drive over, I could just go. And what person wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon at Sarah’s house? Sarah was only the coolest girl in school, we could jump on the “tramp”(oline), play video games with her older brother, and it was almost a guarantee that I would come home with some new craft, sand art, or art project that I had made at her house. She was still my best friend. We had code names for each other (“kay-kay” and “sar-sar”, the crowning display of our creativity), we were equally matched academically and liked a lot of the same things. We both had brothers, we both played the clarinet, and we both struggled with our spelling. One day I went to one of Sarah’s soccer games. Over the years it became blatantly clear that Sarah had more athletic ability than I did. She was gliding across the field when all of a sudden, down she went. The entire sideline gasped, and Sarah didn’t get up. Memories, images. Sarah being carried off the field by her dad, Sarah hobbling around at school, Sarah at her house, hooked up to a machine. She had torn her ACL and needed to have surgery. My mom and I shopped throughout a variety of stores, looking for things to get her. I sat at Sarah’s house, on the couch. We were just talking, laughing, keeping company. That’s what best friends do.

A few weeks later I had a soccer game of my own. It had recently rained and the back of my calves were splattered with specks of mud and grass. The ball was right in front of me so I gathered speed and swung my leg. My momentum didn’t balance the huge puddle that I had found myself in, and down I went. Memories, images. Ref blows the whistle, leaving the game before it ends, my dad and I in the ER, my arm in a sling. We were three days away from fifth grade graduation and all of the really cool stuff was happening for fifth graders. Sarah had been on crutches for weeks, and now I too was banned from participating. Instead we sat along the sidelines of all the games, cheering on our classmates, dancing in our own corner when the DJ came, and giving advice to help our class cream the teachers at dodgeball. We self-titled ourselves “the cripples” and even had our picture taken with the school principal. We didn’t let each other go through a tough experience alone. That’s what best friends do.

Jae, Sarah, Kayla. High school friends all grown up.

Fast forward to high school. All sorts of changes have happened, including a shift in friends. Sarah and I were still both in band, but had academically grown apart as she played sports all year round and I found myself in choir and the musicals and every musical endeavor possible. Luckily for me, Jae also found herself in these activities too. We quickly clicked and bonded over our distaste for band, but both knowing we wanted to be in music education we stayed anyway, complaining and rolling our eyes every day. As part of being in band it was a requirement to play at the graduation. Pomp & Circumstance an average of 14 times as all of the seniors processed into the arena. The band of 120 was then required to sit in silence for 2 ½ hours while the ceremony took place. Whoever thought that was a good idea was sadly mistaken. Jae and I sat there year after year talking, giggling, and devouring large packs of sour gummy worms to make it go by faster. We made the best out of crappy situations. That’s what best friends do.

Friends change, and friendships change. The levels of relationship between your best friend in second grade and your best friend in college are vastly different (at least, I would hope that they would be). We all have these crazy memories of childhood friends, and if we’re lucky we’re still in contact with a quarter of them. I know for me, it is far less than a quarter of them.

I’ll just put this out there, I have really high expectations of myself. When I think of all that is entailed in entering into a friendship with someone, it’s seriously daunting to think of all the things that could go wrong. Perhaps China is a good place for me. The Chinese culture is serious about friendships. This past summer we were warned that if one of our students asked if we could be ‘friends’ to strongly consider what our answer would be. To accept and enter into a friendship with a Chinese person, you are binding yourself with them for life. That means that you are their resource if they are in need, you are their confidant, you are their lifeline. Although I absolutely love this demonstration and commitment, it makes one really think hard about what friendship actually is, and to how many we can actually be devoted to in this nature. We Americans are so casual in our friendships that we may go through our entire lives without ever having a relationship to this degree.

With the title of “friend” comes a large responsibility. In our society the term is used  casually all the time. “Facebook friends”, church friend, this friend, that friend. I’ve spent a large amount of time over the past four years coming to the conclusion that being a friend is so much deeper than what many make it out to be. What does it mean to be an incredible friend? I am an idealist meaning that I have this idea in mind that is basically unattainable. For the time being we can still make strides in attempting to be the best friend that we can be. To be a real friend takes effort, it takes sacrificing yourself, yet knowing where to draw lines. It means being open. The type of friendship that I showed and shared with people in high school is far different than how I interact with my friends now. The role of being a friend is a process that is continually being molded by those who we surround ourselves with. I notice that each of those who I am in close relationship with bring out certain aspects of who I am, different personality glimmers and dimmers (ie the good and the bad).

Sidenote: I never understood how others could refer to six different people as their “best friend.” Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a best friend? The way that I roll in relationships is that I often have very few who are actually close to me, and then a wide variety of acquaintances. I think this would stand true for most people as well. Anyways... this whole friendship ordeal is rather complex and I had no idea where to throw that in...

Despite everything I just said, I have been blessed with the most incredible friends in the world. I mean, I may be a little biased, but I’m not joking when I say that I would do anything for these special people.  I would love to take you through a variety of stories with my college friends, true demonstrations of love, devotion, and community, the way friendship was intended to be. That however would take months to complete and maybe catch the interest of like, 2 people. I guess this is a general shout out to all my friends whom I love and adore. I hope you know I love and adore you, and frankly I couldn't live life without you. {flash back to middle school. I'm ok with it.}

Everyone has the capacity to be a friend. The question is, to what degree of a friend does everyone choose to be? Are we willing to put forth the effort to be an incredible friend, or do you just mozy around all the live-long day, sucking up what you need to get by from this person and that person?

[These thoughts on friendships will drastically change as the next few weeks come around and major life changes take place. I just thought it would be a good idea to capture where I'm at in this moment. It's always fun to come back months and years later to see the changes that have taken place in 'you'.]

Friend (noun)

1. a person known well to another and regarded with liking, affection, and loyalty; an intimate

2. an acquaintance or associate

3. an ally in a fight or cause; supporter

4. a fellow member of a party, society, etc

5. a patron or supporter