Neatly Scribbled

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”  ―  Edith Sitwell This quote from Edith Sitwell says it all so perfectly.  Home for me has never felt the way it does now, the way it's portrayed in this quote.  It has never been comforting, or quiet, or filled with friendly hands by the fire. My current address is just that.  It's warm, it's "home-y", it's quiet when needed, cozy when needing comfort, and fun during get togethers.  My take on my home is of course my opinion, but everyone who visits loves to add in, "It's very home-y here".  I of course take in much delight after hearing those words.  Words that I've wanted to hear most of my adolescent and adult life.  Words that would have reassured me that where I was was safe and secure.  Words that I will share with my children, letting them know that they are home and they are lo...

My grasp seems weak and short.  A God seems far away, beyond reach of my weak and short grasp.  I need help and I'm going to use my blog feed to try to find that help.  I've been a believer once, it shouldn't be hard to be again, right?  Just say right!  Becoming a believer for the first time felt draining, exhausting, and daunting.  This go around it feels all of those adjectives times one hundred. I have four hours to myself daily and I am so unaware of what to fill it with that I usually set down and think of everything God never helped me with.  That's four hours of loneliness, of blaming God for not saving my parents marriage, for not making me as pretty as the other girls, for not helping me when I cried myself to sleep, and for not allowing me to be happy.  I'm done blaming and not taking responsibility.  Only I can make myself happy, only I can forgive my past experiences, and only I can live my life on the belief that God is with m...

Months of requested solitude has gotten me to this point.  The point of almost no return. Feelings of being lost and lonely are haunting me along with every worry I can manage to shove in my suitcase.  The worries deep down are pointless and taking my every breath.  Yet, that realization doesn't make it any easier to stop soaking in them. I have given up my Bible, given up my friends in some ways, my family in others.  I have tried my hardest to push my boyfriend away, to avoid the pain of fighting, arguing, loving, and letting go.  Scared is the main reaction to everything that happens these days.  Scared to lose people, to make the wrong decisions, to turn left when I should have turned right.  I have let my faith go in most aspects and knowing this hurts more than any of the fighting or letting go ever could.  It also causes a more stubborn attitude to the idea of anyone being out there to help me. I have been in my new home for five nights...

Just recently I donated ten inches of my hair to locks of love and it was a rejuvenating feeling.  The rejuvenating feeling, sadly, lasted until I got home and showed my boyfriend.  He said he loved it but I, of course, was still focused on the fact that ten inches of the only part that was ever complimented, belonging to me, was gone. The tears then began to fall and every couple of days since then the tears come suddenly and unexpactantly.  Most of you are probably thinking, "It's only hair. It will grow back."  But my hair was so much more to me.  It was a security, a cloak to hide from all of my other insecurities and to also hide them from others.  I must say I did quite the job of hiding this broken inside with my long locks.  When my hair was longer, it was so much easier to fix it and put on a smile to convince myself and others that everything was perfectly fine.  I stayed in hiding under that hair.  After...

Today was spent with family to celebrate a birthday.  The weather was perfect, not too cool, not too hot.  Just right.  There was good food, good conversation, and love shared.  Days like today make me feel on top of the world since I don't see my family on a regular basis.  As the leaves fell outside I started to contemplate the heavens, as I so often do.  But, as of lately my contemplations have been against anything ethereal and more for the opposite, which hasn't happened since I started believing in a greater presence, a God, if you will.  I have sadly stopped reading my Bible, stopped listening when people begin to talk about a religion, and stopped praying that something would change, to make me more open to the idea.  But today, whether it was the company of my family, the weather outside, or the mood of my soul, got me thinking about the world as if someone was controlling it.  That feeling was short, but beautiful, and has op...

The Happiness Project is the latest book to make it to my Summer reading list and I'm excited to share my thoughts.  However, I haven't made it very far.   The Happiness Project  is based on the author's (Gretchen Rubing Craft) attempt to make herself happier.  Yes, happier, not happy.  She states perfectly clear in the first chapter that she is a happily married woman and a mother of beautiful children.  She lives in her favorite place, New York, has her family, has her health, and has her happiness.  What more could she ask for? Gretchen soon decides she isn't as happy as she could be or should be.  She has everything that she has ever wanted except the happiness level she expected to be at.  This is where The Happiness Project comes in.  She lands on taking a year, twelve months, to do twelve activities or hobbies that she enjoys to try to remedy her happiness intake. While reading this book, I saw so many qual...

More often than usual, I have been struggling with my life as a writer.  Time after time I have been reading and re reading posts from other writers and being amazed by their suttle way of letting everything flow from their mind to that computer screen or that piece of paper.  Reading and re reading these posts are only allowing me to give into my anxiety and complex of being a writer even more.  I have the usual bouts of doubt coming in and out of view everytime I plan out a day to sit and write.  I make excuses, I make criticisms, and I waste time.  More often than not do I find myself bowing down to my fear of writing.  The fear questions that usually strike a nerve with me are, "What if no one is interested?"  "What if it isn't good?"  "What if it isn't enjoyed the way I hope it to be?"  All questions and fears I'm sure every writer has but doesn't give in to.  I don't want to give in any more.  I have always used the term write...