• poems
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  • November 29th, 2022

    i’ve been feeling like my old self again

    and for once

    that feels like a good thing

    my favorite thing about the old me

    was how much she loved her own company

    she knew the freedom in stillness –

    somewhere, i lost that

    but i want to find it again

    i am finding it, again

    i am an explorer of worlds

    built for new places

    i stretch beyond the bounds of comfort in order to find it

    i push myself into quiet

    i push myself into turning off the noise

    i push through the discomfort to the freedom on the other side

    my mind is clear,

    my steps are getting clearer

    i feel more like me and less like yours

  • November 9th, 2022

    Why is leaning into hopelessness so much easier than leaning into hope?

    Is Jesus calling me to more than being sad all the time?

    To hope

    To believe in impossible good things

    In surprises

    In being fully and completely known by the people I allow to know me

    In letting more people know me

    In seeing the bookends of a day, together, the sunrise and the sunset, together, and arguing about which was better but knowing all of it was good

    In grimy feet stuffed into long wool socks on camping trips, toes warm from the fire, no burn ban here

    In icy dips in glacial lakes

    In diving deeper in – into conversation, into knowledge, into crying together, into acknowledging that even though pain is never fun, we can lessen it by walking into it together

    I want to be a person who leans into hope

    I want to be a person who believes goodness and mercy will follow her all the days of her life

    I want to be a person who sees the beauty of the future but isn’t in a hurry to get there

  • fifteen second rule

    November 9th, 2022

    All day I’ve been remembering my dream from last night.

    You were there. We were standing in the middle of a field of wildflowers so vast I couldn’t see an end. I could only see you.

    My brother always told me nobody cares about anyone else’s dreams. We only listen as an excuse to start talking.

    Fifteen second rule.

    Twenty years later and I still count down the seconds when anyone starts to tell me the unbelievable happenings of the night before.

    My friends tell me not to tell you that I dream about you, not to use my subconscious as an excuse to see how you are, and I think they’re probably right.

    You’ve overstayed your welcome in my heart and in my mind.

    That’s where you’ll stay–

    Fifteen second bursts of time.

  • bonus points if it’s something intangible

    February 19th, 2019

    turn me into a metaphor

     

    whisper what you see in me until it turns into something

    bold and

    brave and

    hard to swallow

     

    spin my heart on your turn of phrase—

    turn your words into something

    no one else could follow

     

    what do I remind you of,

    when you’re alone and

    I pop into your brain

    to say hello?

     

    tell me,

    so I can gasp and tell you no else has told me that

    before

     

    bonus points if it’s something intangible

  • soil / soul

    February 6th, 2019

    what do i feel when there’s nothing left to feel

    what do i know for sure, for certain, for real

    how do i sort

    through the swirling widening ball of emotions inside me, surrounding me

    walking in the garden in late september

    i grasp at life before it goes

    i feel the soil start to gasp for breath

    and breath comes

    it’s february now

    and my soul gasps for breath, for air, for anything at all

    my lungs fill with the cold

    harsher than any smoke they’ve known

    they say midwinter is the cruelest time of year

    why, out of all the seasonal options, do i feel most at home here

    in the stillness and the chill

    my heart feels at home in the numbness

    why do we assume the hard times are also the bad times

    walking in the garden in February

    i press my ear to the soil, searching for breath or for life or for anything at all

    my search comes up empty

    but april will be here soon and the warmth will come back too

  • A Week After my Grandfather’s Passing

    January 8th, 2019

    I don’t remember us meeting;

    I guess I always knew you.

    I don’t remember ever having an easy conversation with you –

    I guess I never got to know you.

     

    You scared me –

    That’s why.

    You scared me the way a mountain scares someone who wishes they could climb one but never will.

    You were larger than life,

    And I didn’t know how to bring you into mine.

     

    I shook your hand, though.

     

    You wrote so many stories down,

    But I wish I’d asked you to tell me just one.

    When people hear my grandpa was a writer,

    They smile and say, “That’s where you get it!”

     

    Is that true, Daudy?

    Did you send a trickle of ink in the flow of crimson you passed to me?

    Does talent fit into a Punnett square?

    Were you even talented, or just determined?

     

    Am I?

    Is it in my genes or is it the only thing I know how to do?

    Is it in my genes or is it the only way I can search for what’s missing?

    Something the others seem to have already found

    Something I can’t quite put my finger on

    Something I can see as Black or White as you saw things

     

    Your absence has been a presence in my life for my whole life.

    I wish I’d written to you then,

    When you could’ve written back.

     

    I wonder if you’ll read what I have to say.

    Mine and your heavens seem like they’ll have books in them –

    Don’t they?

    Maybe somehow, up there, you can read what I’ll write before I’ve written it.

    Maybe we can read each other,

    And talk about it,

    Not just shake each other’s hands.

     

  • anticipation/dread

    November 28th, 2018

     

    is it more frightening that no one has ever fully known me,

    or that I can never fully know another person?

     

    is it more frightening that no one has ever fully known me,

    or that no one has ever fully tried?

     

    is it more frightening that no one has ever fully known me,

    or that I don’t fully know myself?

     

    is it more frightening or exciting?

     

    bb

     

    (Photos are from Cy Twombly’s Fifty Days at Iliam, currently at Philadelphia Museum of Art. Specifically from the painting, Achaeans in Battle.)

  • three winds

    November 28th, 2018

     

    The winter wind mounts its attack

    Chilling me from the outside in

    Some days I wonder to myself

    “How much am I just like this wind?”

     

    Fall and spring are my favorite winds

    They sing melodies of newness and change

    I want to hear myself in them

    But I’ve been told I don’t have their range.

     

    The summer wind is soft and sweet

    I miss it before it before it has even gone

    A welcome escape from the blistering heat

    It’s refreshing in ways I think I could be.

     

     

    (Photo is from Cy Twombly’s Fifty Days at Iliam, currently at Philadelphia Museum of Art. Center painting is Shades of Achilles, Patroclus, and Hector. I highly recommend going to see this exhibit.)

  • 11.2.18

    November 2nd, 2018

    i will make you my most prized possession

    if i can be yours

    i will hide you away

    if you will hide me away, too

    i will open the world up to you,

    and you to the world

    it’s such a pretty world when you’re in it

  • acid pain

    November 1st, 2018

    i don’t want to be in this world anymore

    this is not a cry for help or some suicidal elegy

    it’s quiet here and i’m too tired to think

    about why i can’t sleep in the evening

    …

    or is it because i can’t sleep in the evening

     

    i don’t know how to live in this world anymore

    i should probably have started with that

    but maybe i wanted the shock factor…

    or maybe that was just the simple truth…

    or maybe…

    my thoughts are muddled and my words come out too quickly

    when i start to be okay i wake to another day that i need to be me

    i can never remember when i fell asleep but i know i don’t sleep as much as the experts or your grandma recommend

    how is she by the way?

    …

     

    the sun rises and i burrow deeper

    away from and into this darkness

    the sun rises, reminding me how unprepared i am for any kind of news

    good or bad

    old or new

     

    i am more prepared to face anyone else’s pain than i am to face mine

    my mind is the most powerful numbing agent i’ve found

    i feel your problems consuming mine, cutting right through

    your tears cut through my hollow bones like acid rain

    …

    i should’ve brought an umbrella

  • light in another form

    October 17th, 2018

    Oh hey, it’s been a minute

    I forgot you for a minute

    I didn’t forget you because of you

    I forget because of me

    Remembering you comes naturally

    /

    When I remember you I remember

    Thinking about you existing

    In the same world at the same time as me

    It makes me feel the same things I feel

    Leaving the house on a crisp morning in late October

    Hearing the leaves crunch between my feet and the sidewalk

    Watching my breath, wispy in front of me

    You’re the feeling of possibility

    /

    Thinking about you

    Not that far from where I am now

    Makes me feel the same things I feel

    In the first few seconds of that song by The Cranberries

    -you know, the one from You’ve Got Mail–

    /

    This feeling is nearing certainty

    Are your lights on

    Is your car running

    Does your car have heat

    Are you using it or are you still caught in that space between heat and air conditioning

    Summer and fall

    Possibility and uncertainty

    /

    Are you thinking about driving toward me

    Or are you already doing it?

    Rounding the corner onto my block

    The streetlights illuminating the fear, the anticipation, the turmoil, the everything else trying to hide in the shadows consuming your face

    /

    I know it’s late but that doesn’t mean something new can’t start right now

    Morning isn’t the only time for things to begin

    Some of my best beginnings have been soaked in October moonlight

    /

    I know you know some nights I can’t settle down

    And I can’t go home

    I know you know some nights I drive around listening to song after song after song

    Looking for the right one to take me home

    I do it with more than just songs

    /

    Drive toward me

    I’ve been working on my certainty

    Starting with being certain of you

    Drive toward me

    I’ll meet you where the streetlights fade into moon

    Which one am I?

    Which one are you?

    /

    Headlights fade into headlights

    And I’m still not sure

  • careful now

    October 5th, 2018

    remember when you thought the last one was the last one?

    “what a relief,” you told yourself

    “i’ll never have to worry about falling in love again”

    don’t let this one in so easily

    remember when you thought the last one was the one

    there you go again

    rearranging your meaning of the one to fit the new one

    again

    you open your heart wide and you shove him inside,

    before you even know if he fits

    before you even know if he’s worthy of the width

    before you even know if he’ll be safe in there

    what if he’s too weak to survive in the dark

    what if he’s too weak to survive in your heart

    what if he rummages around and breaks something

    careful now –

    when will you learn to be as careful with yourself

    as you are with everyone else?

    you decide he’s what you want

    but you wanted something different before him

    is he the problem or the solution?

    is he rearranging himself to fit into your heart

    or are you shrinking and growing and stretching your heart to fit around him

    if he’s worthy, it will be worth it

    but if he’s not, you’ll have to fall out of and into love all over again

    when will you realize falling breaks things

    and falling again won’t fix them

  • awed

    September 25th, 2018

     

    I am in awe of You

    Enthralled by You

    Fascinated by You

    Undeserving of a moment of You

     

    Out of all the things You could’ve made –

    You picked me to make?

    You picked me to create?

    You picked me.

     

    You fashioned me, carefully

    Every inch of the space inside my brain

    You designed me, gracefully

    Every bit of me pointing back to You

     

    You took your time with me –

    Making sure You added all the things I’d need

    My intricacies, my eccentricities… my flaws, too

    Can there be a flaw in a piece designed by You?

     

    You hang onto my every word

    But I should be hanging onto Yours

    I spend days seeking the sound of You

    Then I hear You whisper, “I want to know YOU more”

     

    Your attention stuns me

    “I am the artist and you are my magnum opus”

    Your intention stuns me into silence

    I am the artist, trying to capture a tiny inch of Your glory and reflect it onto my scraps of blood and bone and paper

     

    I am in awe of You

    I am in awe of every moment spent with You

    In awe of the time and space You give me, selflessly

    In awe of the notion that You are a little in awe of me too

  • light

    September 18th, 2018

     

    It’s the middle of the night

    And I’m here trying to shake the darkness away

    Trying to feel more or feel less –

    Depending on the moment

    Trying to keep my darkness at bay

     

    Then, you ask me if I’ll face your darkness too.

     

    You need someone to stay alive with you – just til the sun rises –

    To pray you’ll see the darkness turn to day

    How can I pray for you when I find it hard to pray for me?

    You honor me with your trust,

    But you frighten me with your pain

     

    Numbness isn’t contagious but pain is.

     

    I’m huddled in the corner trying to fight

    Trying to fix what I feel

    Counting the seconds to the end of the night

    Entertaining lies I’d never believe

    If the blinds were split by morning light

     

    I’ve never felt so self-centered in my life.

     

    You need me,

    And you want me

    So I reach back –

    You touch my darkness with your darkness,

    And I touch your darkness with my light

     

    Here you are, reminding me that I am human.

     

    Your darkness is deeper;

    Mine is shallow

    You have been ripped apart;

    I rip my own heart apart

    And hide the pieces so no one can help me put them back together

     

    Don’t tell me this but I’m beginning to suspect some part of me likes being sad.

     

    My darkness is some unrecognizable shade of gray

    Sometimes I am numb,

    And sometimes I feel nothing so deep I hyperventilate,

    And I’m not saying those things are okay

    But I still have light to spare

     

    I am human and you are human and our pain is what we have in common.

     

    Even in the worst times,

    I have light to share

    So I tuck my darkness away, and I pull out my spare bits of light

    And I know this isn’t the time to ask questions

    This is the time to wrap you up in the light and tuck you into safety

     

    I’ll stay here until you tell me to go and even then I’ll stay a little while longer.

  • 9.14.18

    September 14th, 2018

    i’ve been getting up early

    looking for God in the morning mist

    when the world is emptier, easier

     

    I thought He’d hear my prayers more clearly

    than at 3 am when they’re more cries than prayers

     

    raspy whispers chasing the moon toward its setting

     

     

    i’ve been getting up earlier than is easy

    trying to decipher the messages You left for me

    disconnecting Your voice from my desires

     

    i heard it’s easier now than at 3 am

    when my prayers are too desperate for any answer to be enough

     

    the sun chasing me toward my rising

  • after midnight

    September 13th, 2018

    anxiety is a wave – a tsunami

    it’s a sneak attack

    it comes when i least expect it

    it comes when i most expect it, too

    if only i could confine it –

    one place

    one time

    one person

    one feeling

     

    but i cannot confine it

    i can only fight it

     

    anxiety is a sneak peak of depression

    a trailer as frightening as the main event

     

    depression is subtle

    not a wave or tsunami –

    just a little fall of rain

    i don’t see it as quickly

    sometimes it’s here for weeks,

    settling over me like the thinnest layer of dust

    barely noticeable

    but impacting everything

    depression is gentler –

    but so much heavier

     

    depression is months and months of numb

    hiding behind the appearance of “okay”

    it crushes everything it touches

    but softly, slowly, gently –

    creativity

    security

    compassion

    connection

    anything that used to be easy –

    it breaks me,

    gently

     

    i wish i could fight it

    but i find it hard to identify it

     

    anxiety is flashes of orange and red in a spiral in a kaleidoscope constricting holding me down chasing me trapping me

    sudden

    harsh

    it’s being stuck in an elevator with the walls closing in

    is the elevator moving anymore?

    will it ever move again?

    will i be stuck here forever?

    how long will forever be?

    what will people say about me?

    are they whispering behind my back do they know i don’t belong do they know

    ????

    anxiety is a parking garage and i can’t find the way out how is it holding itself up it’s too heavy i’m too heavy it’s all too heavy it’s going to crush me before i find the way out i can’t breathe i can’t think with all this screaming who is screaming will you stop screaming i can’t breathe

     

    depression is a shade of gray covering everything i see

    all the things that should be technicolor –

    gray

     

    peace is knowing the moment i’m in is the right moment

    the place i’m in is the right place

    peace is calm is home is freedom is happiness

    yellow and blue in a swirl

    sunbeams reflected off the water

    blinding me to the pain I could be feeling at any given moment

    a kaleidoscope I have to pick up and choose to look through

    a kaleidoscope moving slowly

    pulling the best of me out of me

    filling me with the best of me

    pulling me out of myself

    out of my head

    until one day,

    i realize that i am okay

    i am going to make it

    i have been happy for awhile now

     

    peace is gentle, too

  • you were never mine to turn into a poem

    September 12th, 2018

     

    i’m sorry for all the poems i wrote you

    i see now they were never mine to write

     

    every single word was true,

    but none of it was mine to say

     

    i wish you’d told me sooner

    i wish i’d known from the first day,

     

    that you’d never write a poem for me

    i wish you’d told me right away

     

    but i think maybe it’s fine

    i’ve checked and i’m okay – besides

     

    no matter what you should’ve could’ve would’ve said

    i would’ve written them anyway

     

  • change, pain, and some other things 23 taught me

    September 12th, 2018

    I used to believe that no one every really changed.

    I guess I didn’t understand Jesus then. I didn’t understand the way He can come into a life, overhaul it, start at the roots, and heal every single broken part.

    He changes everything.

    Last night someone called out positive change in me, and it felt good because I knew it was true. I knew he was right-that I have grown in my leadership skills and in the way I lead myself. It felt weird and strange to accept the compliment and basically say, “Thank you. I know. Thank you for seeing it too.”

    God has overhauled me this year. Year 23. (Year 24 actually, but I was 23 so it just makes more sense to call it year 23.) I was numb for part of it. I chased things at 22 that would make me numb, and it worked. It worked for a long time. I didn’t even realize numbness was what I was chasing. I thought I was just having fun.

    For the LONGEST time I didn’t realize I was numb.

    Then one day I thought about how long it had been since I had cried. I thought about how long it had been since I experienced life in a visceral way. Since I’d experienced strong emotions of any kind. I was talking about feelings and I was feeling for other people and being kind and being empathetic. But I forgot to feel for me.

    I began to retrace my steps. I began searching for the source of the shutdown.

    God met me when I started asking Him to. He revealed to me that one of my biggest issues is running from my feelings. (I’m basically Chandler Bing except not as funny, k?) I’d rather make a joke than face my pain, and I’m perfectly comfortable doing that.

    I took the enneagram, and I found that I was a type 7. Social. Life of the party. Go, go, go! Runs from pain by finding the silver lining. Struggles with anxiety and depression. Prone to burn out. Overstimulated. Scattered.

    I was blown away. Because I thought happy-go-lucky people like me couldn’t also have that flip side. I didn’t think people would believe or understand the pain I felt because it didn’t make sense with my personality. For the first time, I realized I could be both. Heavy and light. Darkness and bright. For years I’d run away from being labeled an extrovert because I wanted to be viewed as someone who has depth, and isn’t a moody introvert deeper than a flashy extrovert? (And okay, I FOR SURE have my moody introverted times, too.)

    The enneagram was important. It revealed so much to me and led me to a deeper awareness of who God made me to be, and why He made me this way. It pointed out my weak spots and my strong spots. I flipping love the enneagram. I wasn’t even going to get into it in this post, but I can’t talk about the last year without talking about the enneagram.

    I’ve been getting more and more in touch with my emotions. I’ve been writing poetry for the first time in a long time, and it’s been really fun. I’ve been reading Psalms and sending them up to God in my prayers.

    I’m still not the kind of person who will cry at the drop of a hat, but I’m becoming the kind of person who allows herself to feel. And it’s good. And I’m excited. Pain is hard and stretching, but it’s part of what makes us human. It’s part of what connects us and makes us authentic.

    So if you need me to come cry with you, hit me up. Even if the tears don’t come for me, I’ll hand you tissues and I won’t run away.

    The picture above is authentic Carrie. She is happy and free a lot of the time. She will try any food, any adventure, anything that promises an adrenaline rush, and she will be the first to say yes. She’s usually smiling and laughing because it comes naturally to her. But she’s also learning to be still, to not need to be stimulated ALL THE TIME, to dig deeper, to face things instead of hide them away, and she’s learning who she is and how to share that.

    Okay, she’s going to stop talking in the third person now.

     

    Xoxo,

    Carrie Sue

  • awareness

    September 3rd, 2018

    when you knew me you knew me as well as anyone did

    i barely knew myself then

    i was a stranger to myself when

    i wasn’t aware of what i was going through

    this year i met myself

    this year i saw inside

    and i want to tell you

    i’m so far from what we thought

    so much harsher and so much brighter

    so much heavier and so much lighter

    a year? you ask

    what can change in a year

    i knew you then so i know you now

    a year ago I might’ve agreed, but now I know

    a lot can happen in a year

    a lot can grow and a lot can change and a lot of things have gone up in flames

    this year i became aware of myself

    this year i became new

    i think i am aware of what i’m going through

  • Another poem I wrote on an airplane, August 22

    August 28th, 2018

    My Eyes

     

    I see you

     

    Do you see me

    My eyes find you and move away seamlessly

    And then back

    And then away, and then back, and away

    Away

     

    I wonder if you notice

    I wonder if your eyes are doing the same thing

     

    Away, and then back

     

    Do you see me

    Do you want me to think you’re not staring

    What if you’re not staring?

    Do you hope I don’t notice you

    What if there’s nothing to notice?

    I’m staring and it’s rude and I know

    I should say something

     

    But saying is scary

    Doing is scary

    Staying is scary

    What if you turn out to be different than I think

    Saying and doing are scary

    And looking is easy

     

    I hope my eyes keep meeting yours and looking away

    For a long time

     

    I know you feel the electricity in the air

    It’s not just me

    Why don’t you say something then

    Why don’t you do something then

    Why don’t you reach out and touch me

    Then –

    Electrocute us both

    Why do you stay in a place only my eyes can reach

     

    I hope my eyes keep meeting yours for a long time

    I hope one day they learn to stay

  • A poem I wrote on an airplane, August 22

    August 27th, 2018

    My Brain

     

    I am confident

    In myself

    In who I am

    But I wonder

    Is it real

    Or manufactured in a lab inside my brain

    How does it look to people outside the inside

     

    I’m confident

    I’m happy

    Happy?

    Yes, happy

    I smile a lot

    I talk too fast

    Sometimes

    I slur my words

    They come too quick

    I don’t have time to edit them

    Sometimes

    I laugh too loud

    (Sometimes I laugh too much too)

    Sometimes

    I laugh instead of listening

    Sometimes I laugh instead of slitting my heart open on the kitchen table

    For you to clean up later

    After

    When I’m lying in the bed with my eyes closed and you think I’m asleep

    Mom always said when I couldn’t sleep I should at least try to rest

    Sometimes

    I wonder

    Am I too much?

    Am I too loud too out there too different too just like every single other person too sure of myself do I smile too much do I check my hair in the mirror too much do I check my phone too much do I try to be unique to get attention or do I do it without even having to try does my laugh sound normal to you does it sound sincere

    Too much too much too much

     

    But then I remember I am not enough

    How could I ever have thought I was too much

    I wonder if I can even reach the edge of “enough” with the tip of my middle finger when I am standing on the tips of my toes

    Am I too anxious to be seen too anxious to be understood and loved and touched and known too anxious to stay in one place for long enough too anxious period am I too numb to be seen am I too numb to care am I too tired too overwhelmed too sick to stand am I too blurry for you to see me or too blurry for me to see you am I even here

    Not enough not enough not enough

     

    I know I’m not the first one or the only one to feel this

    But that doesn’t fix anything

    It only brings me back to the question

    Do the questions only matter because I’m not the only one to feel this way?

    Is “different” a word I’ve labeled myself to make myself feel better in a world of same

    Is it only how we see ourselves

    But never how others see us?

     

  • FEZ! (or that time we probably almost died or were almost kidnapped 5 or 10 times)

    January 15th, 2018

    “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…”

    If you don’t know where that quote is from, you might know even less about Morocco than I did a few months ago.

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    How familiar was I with this country before I got on a flight from Barcelona to Fes?

    I’d seen Casablanca 5+ years ago.

    I’d done a bit of research on, ya know, Pinterest.

    I’d skimmed through a couple books.

    I was vaguely familiar with the culture.

    I’d checked out a Morocco travel podcast.

    That was pretty much it.

    The North African country wasn’t super high on mine or my friend Rosie’s bucket list, but when we were researching Spain and realized we could hop onto a plane down to Morocco for almost no money at all, we knew it had to happen.

    Fez

    (or Fes. Both are okay, and there’s a solid chance I will switch back and forth between the two spellings.)

    Fez is overwhelming.

    The sites, the sounds, the maze of tight streets within the walled city. The spices, the people who stare and shout and rush by in waves and, before you know it, are giving you a tour you never asked for or have sold you something you definitely don’t want.

     

    First Impressions

    My friend Rosie and I arrived in Morocco late one Thursday night in October. Before we even got through customs my personal space bubble had expanded (by force, not by choice #strangerdanger). I was determined NOT to let the pushy family behind me swoop in front of us in the customs line, and I managed to block them off.

    So proud.

    Rosie didn’t even notice the full scale attack they were mounting against us, nor did she see my impressive counter-attack. She lives in India and is used to people not respecting lines (or other people, for that matter, at least by my reckoning). But the middle eastern/African culture is still fairly foreign to me.

    Or, maybe I should say “was still fairly foreign.” Because I got a crash course in a new culture over the course of that long weekend.

    When we finally made it out of the Fès–Saïs Airport (which is beautiful and funky, btw), we looked around for a line of taxis that I’d read would be waiting for us.

    Except… there were no taxis. Just a line of men.

    Uh, cool. 

    “Should we have gone out the other entrance of the airport?” Rosie asked.

    “No, no. It’s probably fine.” I said.

    (It’s not fine, it’s not fine, it’s not fine.)

    I was feeling a little uncomfortable as scenes from Taken rushed through my mind, and I thought of the warnings I’d heard many times not to get into an unmarked taxi.

    One of the men came up to us. He was the only one who seemed fluent in English, and he used this skill to acquire customers for the line of taxi drivers. After fighting with him on a price for awhile, we decided to trust him, and went off with the cute little old man he told us would be our driver.

    The little old man led us down some steps to a line of what did, in fact, appear to be taxis.

    Ok. Sweet. Maybe we won’t get kidnapped tonight.

    Fez Airport
    Fez Airport
    Our first Moroccan taxi ride
    Our first Moroccan taxi ride

    We began to drive toward the city (Probably. I mean there was no way for us to really know). We drove through some police check points and soon were in a city, at least. The interior of Fez is walled, and the very interior (the ancient city, the medina), is inside another wall.

    After driving around for awhile we arrived at a spot that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There were some parks and athletic fields nearby, but it was just outside the interior city wall. Our driver pulled up to a group of men standing beside the wall and began to talk to one of them through his window.

    Uh. Ok. It’s fine, right? It’s fine. He’s definitely not negotiating a sale of… us, right now. Right?

    The man he was talking to ended up getting into the car with us. He was a young guy, probably 18 or 19, who spoke some English. It became evident that he was giving the man directions.

    To our hostel, I hoped.

    The cute little old taxi driver dropped us off jut outside the interior wall of the medina, (where cars can’t go). We thanked him, paid him, and began our first experience with an unwanted and unneeded guide.

    I knew the way to the hostel from the place the man had dropped us off, but the kid he’d picked up happily grabbed both our large backpacks and began to lead the way. After about a minute he gave up and said he could only carry one bag.

    I OFFERED TO CARRY MINE IN THE FIRST PLACE, KID.

    Finally, we arrived at Riad Verus, our hostel!

    I boldly gave our guide/unneeded helpful friend a tip, because whether we needed him or not, we had allowed him to help us.

    Keep in mind this was my first experience with Moroccan Dirham. I think I literally gave him about 2 MAD which would be about 20 cents in USD. I knew it probably wasn’t enough, but I promise I wasn’t sure about the exchange rate and was just hoping for the best.

    He was, understandably disgusted, after all the unwanted help he’d just given us. “This is nothing to me!” He said.

    I gave him a little more. He left. I felt good about the amount I gave him. We had a good laugh over the “This is nothing to me!” comment and chewed it for the rest of our trip.

     

    Our Hostel

    Ah, the Riad Verus. So much I could say about this place! We had the best experience, although we spent a lot of time wondering what was going on, and laughed A LOT, both with the guys who ran the place and at our interactions with them. They were super helpful to us, but weren’t as kind to all their customers. We were even involved in an awkward fight between the hostel manager and two enterprising German customers on our last night there.

    A riad is a traditional Moroccan house or palace built around an interior garden or courtyard. It was one of the prettiest and most unique “hostels” I’ve stayed in. Not sure if it can even be classified as a hostel.

    The first night, they welcomed us with this incredible meal of couscous (FAVE), chick peas, vegetables, cabbage, and fresh Moroccan mint tea. Then, before long, Nor, the guy who ran the hostel, came and sat with us and asked us if we were planning on going to the desert.

    our first Moroccan tea
    our first Moroccan tea
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    our first and arguably best Moroccan meal
    our first and arguably best Moroccan meal
    the riad
    the riad
    We spent our last night in the hostel in a suite overlooking the main room of the riad. May or may not have done a bit of spying on the guests and staff.
    We spent our last night in the hostel in a suite overlooking the main room of the riad. May or may not have done a bit of spying on the guests and staff.

    We told Nor we wanted to, but it was so far and we only had about 3 full days in Morocco and we wanted to see Fez too. We were considering going to the blue city, Chefchaouen instead of the desert. Nor was the first person to inform us that while the blue city is great for potheads (it’s surrounded by hashish fields) and people who are only traveling for the gram, the desert experience would be one we would remember for the rest of our days.

    Well, let’s just say Nor was quite the salesman, because by the next morning at 7:30, we were in a car bound for the Sahara Desert.

    (More on that coming in my next post.)

    When we came back from the desert a night early, we actually ended up sleeping on the roof of the hostel, because they were fully booked. 10/10 did not mind at all, even though it seems pretty shady in hindsight.

    Where we slept one night
    Where we slept one night
    Fez from the rooftop
    Fez from the rooftop
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    Exploring the Medina

    We spent our last day in Morocco aimlessly exploring. We knew Fez was a maze of a city, and we allowed ourselves to just get lost in it.

    vsco5a579b35358db[1]
    squad goals
    squad goals
    between the medina and the palace
    between the medina and the palace
    vsco5a579b47c02da[1]
    vsco5a579b0112866[1]
    Bab Bou Jeloud, the "Blue Gate"
    Bab Bou Jeloud, the “Blue Gate”
    when you've been walking all day and have run out of water...
    when you’ve been walking all day and have run out of water…
    spices on spices
    spices on spices
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    vsco5a579b09e3f88[1]
    Bab Bou Jeloud, the most famous of the many gates out of the medina
    Bab Bou Jeloud, the most famous of the many gates out of the medina
    vsco5a579945329af[1]
    showing us how to make Argan oil
    showing us how to make Argan oil
    donkeys carrying hides through the crowded medina
    donkeys carrying hides through the crowded medina
    a chic coffee shop we stopped at to drink tea (aka use the wifi)
    a chic coffee shop we stopped at to drink tea (aka use the wifi)
    the palace
    the palace

    Chouara Tannery

    Fez is home to the world’s oldest leather tannery.

    We both knew we wanted to get a leather bag, so a big destination of the day was the leather “souk.” Souks are markets, and they run together in the center of the city. Leather souk, metal souk, spice souk, etc.

    The first thing that tipped us off to the fact that we were nearing the leather souk was the smell. The smell of animal hides and strong dyes and so much more.

    Soon we had a man trying to force us to allow him to be our guide. (These “guides” are paid by leather shops to bring in tourists.) We told him no, of course, but I’m pretty sure he did end up leading us to one of the main leather stores even though we ignored him. We walked up steep stairs, past several floors worth of premium leather goods.

    Somewhere along the way, we were handed sprigs of mint. When we reached the top of the building and stepped out onto the veranda we saw (or should I say smelled) why. The smell was pungent, and the tannery spread out below us.

    vsco5a5799fa0577c[1]
    vsco5a579bbb223fc[1]
    vsco5a5799261f033[1]

    Animal skins were spread out to dry. Workers hopped back and forth precariously over vats of dye, pigeon poop, and other gross things that the animal skins would be repeatedly dipped into.

    vsco5a579b90931be[1]
    vsco5a579bb34a6ea[1]

    We spent some time looking down in awe, and took some photos.

    Then came the truly difficult part of the day: trying to find the perfect leather bag. One of the leather shop employees brought us mint tea, which we sipped as we looked at the many different bags, jackets, and everything in between.

    We walked down the many stairs, and then back up. On the top floor, I asked to see many different bags, and eventually, we both found our ideal bag. When you know, you know. You know?

    Then came the bartering. The attendant started out at over $100 for just my bag. Rosie, using her Indian skills, bartered him down to less than $100 for both bags. It was entertaining to watch. And it felt good to leave having spent so much less money than we would’ve had we purchased similar bags in the states.

     

    Fez was exciting, but I think we were both ready to leave. I could tell you a million other stories about this place, especially about our hostel and the people we met there.

    A couple things that stood out to me: there were so few women out and about. Working in shops, restaurants, cafes, even our hostel? Men. Sitting outside cafes? Men. It definitely gave the whole city a creepier vibe than if there had been women out and about or children playing.

    Second, you will get attention. People will try to take advantage of you. People will say creepy things to you, or leer at you, especially if you’re a woman in this environment. Especially if you’re a foreign woman in this environment. I think it would’ve been worse if we had dressed immodestly (I bought two longer dresses specifically to wear there, and wore leggings even though it was hot). It also might’ve been worse if we hadn’t been brunettes. Some people even mistook me for Moroccan! (This is a common theme in most places I travel, except, ironically, Germany/Austria/Switzerland, where I actually have roots!)

    But, if you make smart decisions and keep your wits about you, you should be fine. You just need to learn to be rude and say solid NO’s to people.

    Over all, Morocco is beautiful and exotic. If you get the chance, GO. If you don’t get the chance, go out of your way to go! And if you have questions, please ask.

    YUMMMMM.
    YUMMMMM.
    Pretty, pretty Fez.
    Pretty, pretty Fez.

    Much love,

    Carrie Sue

     

  • Searching for the Monk Baths and a Deserted Resort in the Jungles of St. Croix

    June 12th, 2017

    If you read my fairly comprehensive blog post on my St. Croix trip, you’ve already met the friendly bartender, Jameson, who gave us some great recommendations. One of the places he told us to check out was an abandoned resort called the Clover… something. Clover Crest? Cloverfield? I don’t remember, and I could find no mention of it online, which led us to assume the resort was probably abandoned before the internet became prevalent… I’m guessing the 70s.

    “Yeah,” Jameson said. “It’s this old resort with a clover shaped pool out front. I’ve been up there a bunch of times. There’s an epic view from the roof; I’ve watched meteor showers and done all kinds of things from there.”

    Ok Jameson, I don’t doubt that.

    Really, I don’t.

    I just wish you were a little better at giving directions.

    “Drive past Estate Mount Washington Plantation until the road splits into a Y, then go left until you see two boulders. At that point, leave your Jeep and walk down the path until you reach the resort.”

    To be honest, the directions sounded pretty idiot-proof, so our last morning on the island rolled around, and we headed out to find the resort. We were also hoping to find some large stone Roman style bathtubs that monks had carved down by the sea in the 1600s. A group of American expats told me about the monk baths when I was walking along the beach one day, and they were supposedly in the same area of the island as the deserted resort. (Jameson told us these people were friends of his, so I should’ve known their directions would also suck.)

    We drove down the main road through Frederiksted and continued along the shore. When we reached the gravel road that led to Estate Mount Washington, we turned down it, and tried to follow Jameson’s directions. However, we were met by gates, no trespassing signs, steep hills to private homes, and security cameras. There were no boulders in sight.

    After talking for awhile, with a few of us pushing to drive past the no trespassing signs and a few wanting to be cautious, we decided to play it safe and go search for the monk baths. These proved to be no easier to find. I had been told to drive down the road, past Estate Mount Washington, until I saw a chain-link fence and barbed wire in front of a Manor on the right. The monk baths would be down a little path to the left of the road.

    We stopped a few times and walked down paths to the ocean, and we even thought we found them. I hopped into the water at one point, avoiding sea urchin-covered rocks, thinking I was in a little alcove carved by monks. (At some point during the Monk Bath search, Katey called the resort where we’d met Jameson, to ask him for better directions to the abandoned resort. Neither Katey nor I had quite given up on finding it, and we were getting desperate. Alas, he was not working, and could not be reached, and/or he doesn’t come to the phone when random American girls call.)

    The water was nice and warm, even if it wasn't actually the monk baths.
    The water was nice and warm, even if it wasn’t actually the monk baths.
    20170527_095309

    Finally, we said “Maybe we found the monk baths,” gave up, and headed back toward Frederiksted. Some of us jumped off the pier, which gave us the little rush we were hoping to get from exploring a spooky, abandoned resort. Then we headed on to the beach at Sandy Point, which is exactly how I imagine Caribbean beaches.

    IMG_8132
    On the beach near Sandy Point National Wildlife Refuge

    Soon, Katey and I decided to go back into town to find lunch. After enjoying raspberry mojitos, Red Stripes, ceviche, and crab cakes at Rhythm’s, Katey turned to me. “Wanna go look for the monk baths again?” she asked with a sly smile.

    Katey and I were the two from the group who had been pushing to find the resort and monk baths earlier in the day, so maybe it was fate that brought us back into the town for lunch. Or maybe we were just the hungriest. Or maybe we both subconsciously knew, when we drove into town, that it wouldn’t be our only destination.

    Soon we were headed back down the bumpy, pot-hole filled road, hoping we were going in the right direction. This time, we went further. The road turned to dirt, getting bumpier and emptier. We drove and drove, finally coming to a Y in the road.

    “Wait a second… was that a Y?” Katey asked.

    “It can’t be!” I said. “This isn’t the right road.”

    Before I even finished speaking, we rounded a corner and were confronted with *wait for it* two boulders.

    We both lost it. A fork in the road… two boulders… this sounded strangely familiar.

    We had found what we’d given up looking for!

    IMG_8129
    Two boulders!

    We parked the Jeep and rushed along the path through the boulders. Pushing our way through hanging vines and some unfortunate burn hazel-like plants that had both our legs burning and itching, we followed the path out into a clearing.

    There were the buildings.

    There was the clover-shaped pool!

    We rushed around, as excited as two 5-year-olds on Christmas morning. The place was also spooky, and we were a little freaked out a time or two, especially when we saw unhinged jail doors at the end of long hallways, and as we took the path up behind the buildings to climb out onto the roof.

    The rooms lie empty. The countless memories and events they once held are now forgotten.

    I’d love to know the history of the resort, or even the full name. Who owned it? What kinds of people stayed there? Worked there? Were there honeymoons and weddings and bachelorette weekends held between these walls? When they built the clover-shaped pool, did they imagine it would one day be filled with muck, trees, and algae?

    Perhaps a hurricane came along and did irreparable damage to the resort, or maybe it was just too far out in the wilderness for the leisure traveler.

    It’s spine-tingling to see the bones, but only have the ability to guess at the life the bones once held.

    IMG_8130
    IMG_8128
    IMG_8125

    IMG_8126
    View from the roof: the pool, and beyond it - the deep blue Caribbean Sea
    View from the roof: the pool, and beyond it – the deep blue Caribbean Sea

    The view from the roof was worth the creepiness.

    Before we left, Katey bravely ventured into one of the out-buildings. I was on the porch outside, peering down into a random hole that seemed to lead to a dark abyss. (If it was a horror movie, I would’ve fallen into the hole and hurt my ankle, then, one of the jail doors would have clanged shut, trapping Katey. I would have tried to hobble to the Jeep to get help, but when I’d arrive, the tires would have been slashed. Lucky for us, life isn’t a horror movie.)

    Suddenly, as Katey was exploring the interior, she started screaming. I peeked in the window to see her running for shelter. She had disturbed a nest of birds or bats (her worst fear), and they weren’t happy about it. We left without further ado, and went a little further down the road in search of the monk baths before giving up and going back to the others.

    That evening, we came back with Lindsay and Jess. After we reached the Y and turned left, we saw something on the side of the road. Something big. Something gross. Something that could probably squish a grown woman to death. Something that supposedly did not live on this island.

    IMG_8158

    A massive boa constrictor!!!!!!! (Or similar snake. I think it looks like a boa constrictor but I’m not a Herpetologist.)

    I googled it. St. Croix (supposedly) only has two kinds of snakes, and they’re both tiny and harmless.

    This? Less so.

    Luckily, he was dead. We told ourselves perhaps it was someone’s escaped pet, but what are the chances we would find the one escaped enormous snake on the island? We moved onward into the jungle, a little more cautious and nervous than before.

    Without a doubt, the resort was creepier this time, as the light of day was beginning to wane. (Also, the snake was fresh on our minds as we ventured onward.)

    You can see a little of the clover-shaped pool to our right.
    You can see a little of the clover-shaped pool to our right.
    The roof was covered in residue of what may have once been shingles, and was overgrown with plants, too.
    The roof was covered in residue of what may have once been shingles, and was overgrown with plants, too.

    IMG_5561

    There were plenty of beer cans strewn about, and graffiti and zombie apocalypse warnings covered the walls. We were clearly not the first people to discover the abandoned resort.

    On our way out to the resort for the second time, I’d noticed a tree with an orange “M” and an arrow. “Could that be pointing to the monk baths?” I wondered.

    IMG_8119
    Great signage, St. Croix. There’s no way anyone would miss this.

    As we drove back to town, I kept a lookout for the M, and when I finally saw it again, we stopped, climbed down onto the beach, and finally saw long rectangular baths carved into the stone, complete with steps leading down into them. There were also some other ruins and what we’re fairly sure was an ocean toilet.

    Finally, as the sun sunk down beneath the waves, we found everything we set out to find that morning.

    IMG_8120
    IMG_8121

    We went to bed on our last night in St. Croix feeling content that we had seen as much of the island as we could. We explored, we jumped off piers, we swam, we hiked, we kayaked, we found some wildlife, we danced to Despacito in the Jeep, and we truly lived.

    Thanks for the tips, Jameson. We owe you one.

    20170527_183241

     xoxo,

    Carrie

  • The Day of the Dad

    June 19th, 2016

    I want to take a moment here to honor my father.

    DSCN1489
    just another one of James Bond’s Scottish castles

    If you know Stephen Wagler, you know he is one of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet. He’s funny, he has a loud laugh and an even louder phone voice. He’s an honest businessman and an even better provider for my family.

    He taught me to love Jesus, he took me on countless trips as a child and planted a love of travel in my heart. He took me to so many Phillies games, to Broadway plays, and his Canadian heart may have even taught me a few things about hockey. He definitely taught me the magic of Tim Hortons.

    He likes his coffee strong and black (cowboy coffee is an art form in which he is skilled). He showed me every episode of Seinfeld, and his favorite movies are some of mine (O Brother, Where Art Thou supremacy). Because of him and my mom, I still like flipping through paper newspapers, even in 2016.

    He’s loved my mother for 36 years, and isn’t that the best thing a father can ever do for his child?

    DSCN1402
    my parents chilling on a bench near Loch Ness, surrounded by wild gorse

    For the past couple months, I have been thinking about what it means to be a father. I have so many friends whose fathers have disappointed them again, and again. “What separates the good dads from the bad?” I wondered. “Why are some people willing to give up things they want to do in order to better care for their children, while other people cling to their selfish desires, even if it hurts their families?”

    My dad is flawed just like the rest of us, and I’ve argued with him upwards of a thousand times, but there’s never once been a time when he did not come through for me.

    EVERY time I truly needed him, he was there.

    Is that not the most beautiful picture of our Father God? He is consistent. There’s never going to be a time when we call on Him and He won’t pick up the phone (even when he’s already in bed and you left your lights on and let your car battery die, AGAIN).

    Whether you had the best or the worst biological dad in the world, your Father God is so much more. More bold, more protective, more compassionate. He loves you with a love that is unfailing. Every time your earthly father fails you, there is another who is willing to step in. Who wants to step in. There is a good, good Father who wants nothing more than for you to accept His love. He wants to show you all the mysteries of this world and the next, and all the mysteries of your own soul. All you have to do is let Him.

    Walt Whitman – “On the Beach at Night”

    On the beach, at night,
    Stands a child, with her father,
    Watching the east, the autumn sky.

    Up through the darkness,
    While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
    Lower, sullen and fast, athwart and down the sky,
    Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
    Ascends, large and calm, the lord-star Jupiter;
    And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
    Swim the delicate brothers, the Pleiades.

    From the beach, the child, holding the hand of her father,
    Those burial-clouds that lower, victorious, soon to devour all,
    Watching, silently weeps.

    Weep not, child,
    Weep not, my darling,
    With these kisses let me remove your tears;
    The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
    They shall not long possess the sky- shall devour the stars only in
    apparition:
    Jupiter shall emerge- be patient- watch again another night- the
    Pleiades shall emerge,
    They are immortal- all those stars, both silvery and golden, shall
    shine out again,
    The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again- they
    endure;
    The vast immortal suns, and the long-enduring pensive moons, shall
    again shine.

    Then, dearest child, mournest thou only for Jupiter?
    Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

    Something there is,
    (With my lips soothing thee, adding, I whisper,
    I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
    Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
    (Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
    Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter,
    Longer than sun, or any revolving satellite,
    Or the radiant brothers, the Pleiades.

    Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there today.

    To my own father: Thank You for loving me well. Thank you, most of all, for leading me into a relationship with my heavenly Father.

    XOXO,

    Carrie

  • Do I Dare?

    May 6th, 2016

    Tomorrow, I graduate from college. 16 years of school. 4 years of hard work, and sweat, and tears, and stress, and wanting to quit numerous times…

    “Let us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky”

    This is the end. I know it won’t hit me until autumn, when I should be buying school supplies, and ordering books. For the first time in 16 years, I won’t need to buy pencils, and notebooks, and backpacks.

    “Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument
    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question…”

    Despite all of the bad, I loved school. I loved “being an English major.” I loved learning new things. I loved the race against time to get a project or a paper turned in.

    “In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.”

    Tonight was my last class. My favorite professor made my classmates clap for me multiple times, probably to make up for the fact that he can’t make it to graduation (and that he made me come to class from 6-8 on the night before graduation).

    “There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,”

    Tomorrow, I’ll walk across a stage (number 448 in the school of arts, humanities, and social sciences alone). This is the end.

    “Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.”

    On this, the eve of entering the “real world,” lines from my favorite poem keep running through my mind.

    “And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’”

    There are things I’ve read in college that I probably would not have read otherwise. T.S. Eliot is a big one. I read Eliot in high school but wasn’t impressed. I remember studying “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and not understanding it (or just not caring). 

    “Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”

    In college? Eliot was enlightening. I read “Prufrock” again every couple months, and every single time I read it, I see something in myself that I need to work on. If I’d left high school and not gone on to pursue an English degree, I would probably never have read Eliot again. I would think a little differently than I do now, and I would be a little more passive. There are steps I wouldn’t have taken and chances I would’ve ignored.

    “For I have known them all already, known them all:
    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;”

    “Prufrock” is all about passivity.

    “I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?”

    Passivity is a problem I see all around me. It’s a problem that is often attributed to my generation – to millennials. However, Eliot saw this same problem in his own generation, almost 100 years ago! He saw people letting life pass them by, rather than taking life by the horns. He saw people who measured out their lives in… coffee spoons? What a small and insignificant thing to measure your life by.

    “And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.”

    “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons” is a well-known line. I see it in cute little prints and coffee shop chalkboards, and I always smile to myself, because I know when Eliot wrote it, he meant it as a bad thing. This is why we should not take quotes out of context, people. 

    “I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.”

    In the poem, Eliot’s character, J. Alfred Prufrock becomes so passive, that he begins to question his ability to make even the smallest decisions. At the beginning of the poem, he’s alive. He’s even thinking about daring to do something as big as disturb the universe. At the end of the poem, he’s questioning whether he even dares to eat a peach.

    “Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it toward some overwhelming question,”

    One thing I learned in college is how to step out of my comfort zone. In college, I had to put myself out there if I wanted to meet anyone. Another way I jumped out of my comfort zone? Living abroad for over 5 months. I learned to conquer fears I didn’t even know I had. 

    “And would it have been worth it, after all,
    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
    And this, and so much more?—

    It is impossible to say just what I mean!”

    Another thing I really struggled with during college was anxiety. College is all stress, all the time. The more stressed I became, the more anxious I became. There were times I was too afraid of the future to sleep. Thanks to Jesus, and thanks to my Mama encouraging me when I genuinely wanted to quit school, I overcame my anxiety.

    “I grow old … I grow old …
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

    As I leave school and enter the “real world,” I want to be unafraid of taking chances. I want to make good decisions without always second guessing myself. I want to follow my dreams of writing fiction and being published, and I want to continue to do everything I can for the Kingdom. 

    “Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.”

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