When I let myself wallow, I breathe long and deep and slow and sometimes, sometimes I stop breathing all together.
Just for a minute. I lie down, stare at nothing in particular, and listen to my heart pound: each throb against my rib cage a shattering reminder that I am here for now and every breath you have is borrowed my dear, so please — make the most of it. Continue reading
This is a story about my hair. I did not set out to write about my hair, but given the events of the last twenty-four hours, it would appear that my hair set out to make me write about it.
It all started with yesterday’s hairstyle. I am a tremendous fan of braids. Seriously. About a year and a half ago, I taught myself to French braid because I was bored with my history reading and feeling a bit antsy. It took a remarkably short amount of time (read: something like ten minutes), and after that I was hooked on everything from fish-tails (get it? hooked?) and waterfalls to pigtails and twists.
In any case, yesterday I braided the side of my hair around my head and into an updo. It’s one of the easiest, classiest looks I know, and I wanted to look at least somewhat put together for my first appearance on Carolina’s campus (for my own sake, since I know… no one here. … Yet!). I was quite proud of this look yesterday — I mean, come on. Look at that braid! Definitely one of my better attempts.
Of course, wandering around campus for hours on end means only one thing when you’ve got skin as pale as mine: sunburn.
The funny part of this post came about after I ate some of my frozen watermelon for dessert last night.Better than popsicles, that stuff.
In any case, there I was: night arrived, lamp on, fan blowing, windows open to the cool breezes of the evening, Bible opened to Isaiah. Perfectly peaceful. As I lay there reading, something moved in the corner of my (limited due to glasses) peripheral vision. I looked up, only to find myself confronted with a small, green bug. Now, I’m not one to go all squeamish over bugs (except cockroaches. Don’t get me started on how nasty those things are. Not to mention terrifying — they can survive nuclear blasts, for Pete’s sake!), so I did what any self-respecting person would have done in my place: I swatted it to death with the closest thing to hand.
… which happened to be my Bible. Naturally. Continue reading
One thing I have learned during my short stay in these parts is that North Carolinians are very, very aware of their sidewalks. If two slabs are uneven, they mark them with bright paint to alert you of the problem. I discovered this example on my afternoon run through the neighborhood. Hailing from Philadelphia (the land of broken sidewalks and tree-root-jumps galore), this discovery came as quite a surprise.
Earlier this year, I decided to spend another summer in North Carolina. There are plenty of adventures and lessons ahead, so I figured I should probably chronicle them in some manner or other. Be forewarned: I have successfully kept neither blog nor journal throughout my short life, and my stories may not seem significant or even particularly interesting to anyone except myself (Connor. No one cares how many times you made kale salad, or how many mugs of tea you had on that one day before your last final. Get a grip, girl). Still and all, here we are, and there you have it.