settling in.

at my grandparents' house, my room watches the sun set. at my grandparents' house, i have a baby grand at my disposal. at my grandparents' house, we have a record player and hundreds of jazz and classical albums to go with it. at my grandparents' house, i lie down late and wake up early. at my grandparents' house, i dream of string quartets when i don't dream of harmonizing to imagine dragons. at my grandparents', the mason jar is again mine to drink out of. the smell of my grandparents' house has become subconscious in my nostrils, and that shows me i am home, or that i am at least making this my home.

-kiss kiss kiss it'll all be clear-

letters to tradaisa, opus one.

june sixteenth, in the bed at the grandparents'.

9:59:41pm and i've finally started to cry. camp... it does something to you. i've learned that in the eleven years i've been going. the only year i didn't cry was last year, and that's because i was trying to make up for all the things i'd unknowingly done (but the best part is, i think i made that up with you). but all-in-all, feelings i never think i'll have well up in the dark and spill over into midnight glasses of water. and the funny thing is, it feels like it's midnight just because it's dark. but sleeping is a luxury that i won't be able to give myself for awhile.

megan says to describe as many glorious moments as i can in my journal. this is my journal but i can't even begin to describe the array of glorious things that took place last week. but i'll think of one because sometimes i like crying, and that one would be the time where i hugged you for a good minute and a half after i screamed myself away in the prayer garden (and i actually feel physically lighter. the stress literally made my body into a tree stump). it wasn't awkward even though you said it was. and i could feel myself glowing. and even though it was cloudy and humid, i bet my eyes were really brown. 

johanna says to avoid contact with other humans at all cost because you never know what sort of germs they might have but dear God, in the year i've known you, you'd never hugged more people than you did last week. now i know you don't mind hugging, but touching isn't your favourite. and yet... i think in certain situations it's necessary to more than hug; to brush hair back and smell sweatshirts (hey, mallory), to squeeze hands and smile with fangs in your teeth. and you're good at that, because you're quiet and you know how to be there and now i can't see to type so congratulations i would like a cookie for training myself to type with my eyes closed. 

jennoelle asks what the point is of a gemstone (the metaphor and the real thing) if it is fake. rhetorical question, probably, but there is none. and putting on a facade for others (to draw attention or even make them laugh) may feel good for awhile, but once they begin to see you for who you actually are, it gets worse ("you" being an example of a person). and i think we both saw that. in more than one person. and i think it was wise to remove ourselves. and the best part is: there was no cost because we gained so much more.

jessica looks like a jessica and you look like a tradaisa (for now) and i look like someone who definitely has a different name that what is expected of me. in which case, jocelyn. and i do often wonder what life would be like if i were named carol amber (did i tell you that was a possibility?) instead of jocelyn carol. but you're the one who is going to find out. you tolerated mispronunciations and the scrutinizing of your name tag and repetition more than i did. but to me, you will always look like a tradaisa because it will always be you. 

10:42:13pm and i haven't laid out my clothes for tomorrow and i'm stressing about it. it just became very real to me that i won't sleep in but for saturdays and sundays and that i won't smell my own home for nearly a month and a half. here, i have but a few friends to begin with. here, now, all i want is hard waffles and ice cream for breakfast and an attempted nap after the lunch shift. now, all i want is to write write write about the last time we sang and about how i broke my code and got a different ice cream flavour this morning and about how happy i feel when you can actually tell that my eyes are actually really, really brown. here, all i want is a crappy game of truth or dare (except not really, because i'm square) [rhymed] until you have to wake me up to make me answer the question. 

here, all i want is ocean. the best ocean. 'layna ocean, and even though you will always be a tradaisa, ocean will always be you. 

love, jo.

{letters to my best friend that signify how much she means to me and how much i will miss home while i'm a way at the music conservatory. also stories about camp, and many tears.}

what's in a name? | guest post by jessica

Hello, my name is Jess. And for some odd reason, it's taken me forever to claim my name as my own.

It's not that I'm picky about nicknames (although to this day, there's only one person I let call me 'Jessy'). It's just that I always introduce myself as Jessica, have always thought of myself as Jessica, regardless of the fact that no one ever calls me that for long. It's like they somehow know (after exchanging very few words with me) that the simplicity and familiarity of four letters suits me better than seven.

Sometimes, I wonder if my mother knew that that's what would happen when she gave me my name, the first time she held me nearly twenty years ago. Other times, I wonder if I would be a different person, had she decided to call me someone else.

What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
But anyway. I digress.

Lately, I've been thinking about the value that is found in what people spend your entire life calling you. Growing up, I always wanted to go by something more unique than the name I shared with millions of other girls. So I stole my mother's baby name book off the shelf and wrote out a list of my favorite, exotic names. I decided in my heart that someday I would travel the world, and give myself a different moniker everywhere I went.

Now that I'm older, though, I have learned the value of my name. Jessica Lynn. "He beholds beauty." And somehow, I think Shakespeare was wrong to say that a rose would still be sweet if it were called by another name. I think we call it a rose because of it's fragrance, its softness, its beauty. And I think that our names, in at least a small way, shape us into who we are.

Hello, my name is Jess. What's yours?
--

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gemstones | guest post by jenn

When my older sister turned 16, my parents bought her a ring--an emerald ring, since she's always been in love with that color.  I remember as my mom tried to pick out just the right one, looking at the shape, design, size, and mostly, the color.  You see, there was a significant difference in color between lab-created emeralds and true emeralds.  The fake ones were gorgeous, quite frankly--the color was deep and rich and flawless.  The real ones, on the other hand, were a little lighter in color, often with little flecks of light reflecting subtle impurities in the stone.  In ways, it really didn't seem quite as pretty.

But it was worth so much more.

My sister's favorite color may always be that deeper, richer green, but she has never regretted getting a real emerald ring, imperfections and all.

I want to be like a gemstone, a real one.  A fake one may be prettier, more perfect, may draw the attention or admiration of more, may seem like the better choice between the two.  But what is the point, if all of it is fake?  A real person has struggles as well as triumphs, weaknesses as well as strengths, as a part of what makes them who they are.  The real life versus the fake one is almost guaranteed to be messy, painful, imperfect, and not always the prettiest to look at.  But it is worth so much more.  It is genuine, it is honest, and that in itself makes it more beautiful than the hastily smoothed-over surface of a fake one could ever be.

I got a ring for my 16th birthday, too.  It's an aquamarine--a real one, so it's very light and sometimes people confuse it for a diamond.  But it hasn't left my hand for two and a half years, and to me it's much more beautiful than a fake turquoise stone could ever be.  Just as a real, heartfelt, genuine, feeling, honest, true person is so much more beautiful to me than anyone trying to fake it.

And isn't it interesting that, in the end, gemstones are just rocks that have undergone a lot of pressure?

I like to make people laugh. Books get me, and I obsess over musicals. I love Jesus and life and people and theatre and deep philosophical conversations and being ridiculous. I'm Jennoelle, but you can call me Jenn.  Come visit me at UO!

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