The writing’s on the wall, brothers
Your life is in your hands.
It’s up to you to see the writing’s on the wall
I hope that you may see the writing’s on the wall.
George Harrison, “Writing’s On The Wall”

I’ve written and re-written the beginning of this post no less than half a dozen times already, but no matter how many different ways I type the words or how often I say it out loud, even I can’t quite believe it’s real. Life has begun to change for me the past couple of weeks, though it’s a welcomed  change, and over the course of this time, new dreams have taken shape, lessons have been learned and tested, and emotions have become exhausted.

There’s been so much I’ve wanted to write about with all of this, so much I’ve wanted to share, yet I’ve been afraid to speak these words out-loud, afraid to smile too broadly, afraid to laugh too loud. Somehow, I’ve convinced myself that if I kept it a secret, then this newfound happiness couldn’t be taken away from me, that the dream wouldn’t slip from within my grasp. I was afraid that something would happen, that something would change, as things so quickly seem to do. While I’ve been running head-first into this adventure, as this dream turns into reality with every passing hour, there’s a part of me that’s terrified that it’s merely the dreamer in me speaking, that the dream will be shattered, somehow, if I even dare whisper the words to the world.

And so I kept it to myself as much as I could, while inside I’ve been a mess of emotions: frustration at not being entirely in control of the situation, having to leave this fate in others’ hands; patience — never really my strong suit in the first place — being tried as the days pass to weeks and those weeks go by; anticipation and excitement coursing through every vein in my body as I plan, dream, wonder about my future — a future that feels so close at hand.

Yet, never once, despite all of these emotions, has there been even the smallest shred of doubt that this isn’t the right decision, that this isn’t meant to be, that this is the next step on my journey:

I’m buying a house.

A house. I’m buying a house. A house with a fenced-in yard for Riley and all of the charm and history I could have ever wanted. A house where friends will join me for cookouts and movie nights in and family will come for long dinners, building new memories as we share the old with smiles and laughter. A house where responsibility lies in my open hands, where I can grow and learn and become the adult I have always, always longed to be, the woman that has been in there, inside of me, just waiting for time and age to catch up to her.

A house where my life — my very heart and soul — will be written on the walls.

A house that will become a home.

* * * * * * *

Note: This has been a long and emotional process, and one I’ve been longing to write about for some time now. In the next few weeks, I hope to share what has led me to this point in my life, what this dream means to me, and who I believe has helped guide me here — even if they’re only here in spirit. Until then: Thanks for your patience and understanding through the somewhat silent route this blog has taken, thanks for your support and encouragement, and, most importantly, thank you simply for you — the past two years have been a tremendous learning curve and I doubt my life would have been the same without this blog, without this community, without you, my friends.

Maybe there’s a chance for me to go back there
Now that I have some direction
It would sure be nice to be back home
Where there’s love and affection.

And just maybe I can convince time to slow up
Giving me enough time in my life to grow up
Time be my friend, let me start again…
The Wiz, “Home”

My memories of summertime as a child consist of playing flashlight tag in the dark with my neighborhood friends and catching fireflies in a coffee can or glass mason jar. We had family barbecues and church picnics, and when the heat clung to our bare legs like a second skin, we chased each other around the yards with Super Soaker 500s and filled water balloons primed for maximum impact.

Echoing screams of delight faded as the last remnants of daylight gave way to night, as we put on our nightgowns and burrowed our feet beneath the cold, crisp sheets of our beds. The glow of the lamp bathed the room in warmth, and the low murmuring of the television downstairs, siblings talking across the hall, made everything feel comfortable and safe and…like home. The turning pages of a book became the only thing we were aware of as the world slipped away and we sought peace from our imaginations before slowly, slowly, even that fell away to our dreams.

Sometimes I think I would give anything to go back to that time — those years when, for three months, time stood still. It seemed so simple then. So light, so easy…

So permanent.

But maybe that’s only the memory speaking. Maybe that’s the longing of something so light, so easy, so simple. Something so safe and assured.

Maybe that’s only the missing speaking — missing people and places and a time that can’t ever be replicated; missing the feeling of comfort and safety and simplicity that marked those childhood days, that won’t — and can’t — come again. At least, not as it was back then when your mother’s voice called you in the dark and you came running to the back door, ready to end the day, knowing there would always be a next.

Now, the only thing I’m certain of is how uncertain life can be. Life changes with every skip of a heartbeat and I find myself thinking, this heart is beating too fast and not fast enough.

I know that I have to learn to appreciate time as it is. Every day is different from the last, with a future that quickly becomes the past and a present that changes the future. Every day there are changes,  new chances, and while you may not even be aware of it, with every heartbeat, you’re changing, too.

Sometimes, though…Sometimes, I just want it all to remain the same.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of handling anymore change.

I think I’m scared. The life I’ve always dreamed of is right there on the horizon, about to become a beautiful reality. I’ve become a person I’m proud to be, becoming the woman I’ve always felt was within me, just waiting for life and time to catch up to her. And yet, while I’m so eager for this so-called new life to begin, tonight I feel there’s so much holding me back, so much that still haunts me, like there’s so much healing and learning left to do.

I find myself scared that I will inadvertently sabotage myself and my chance at this happiness.

Sometimes, I think I would give anything to take a step back, to put all those pieces of the past back together again. No broken hearts, no wondering about a future that you can’t control, and no terrible heartache that comes with saying goodbye forever.

Sometimes, I wish life would slow down, that the moments would last forever.

And yet, sometimes, I wish life would speed up, that the future I’ve longed for could be right within my grasp, certain, unbending, without a chance of changing…

I feel like I’m balancing Time — standing on a precarious, emotional edge with the innocence of childhood to my back and a vast unknown spread out in front of me.

Tonight, I long for a missed past while anxiously preparing for a long-awaited future.

Tonight, I wish, more than anything, for that comforting voice to call me in from the dark, ready to embrace me in words of comfort and confidence as the day draws to a close.

And so we talked all night about the rest of our lives
Where we’re gonna be when we turn 25.
I keep thinking times will never change,
Keep on thinking things will always be the same…
Graduation (Friends Forever), Vitamin C

It was early September, right after we moved into this house from New York, that I first met them. I must have been playing outside at the time because all I remember is the grumble of wheels rolling over pavement as they pulled the red wooden wagon closer to my driveway. I was just about to turn four years old and, as fate would have it, about to meet my first best friends.

We lived one behind the other, separated by a border of thinly blossoming trees in my own backyard and then a street on the other side of her house. A neighborhood full of children for us to play with was exactly what my parents longed for when we moved here, but all I knew (and cared about) growing up were the lemonade stands with hardly any traffic, the t-ball games that had my dad throwing the pitches, and the secrets-that-weren’t-really-secrets-at-all whispered into the dark as we burrowed beneath our sleeping bags.

These were my friends — the boys and girls who lived in a three block radius, who could regularly be called out for a game of flashlight tag or capture the flag across the yards. These were my best friends — the two girls who lived behind me and on the next street over, who shared wishes at birthday parties and who held our hand when the yellow schoolbus came into view.

They taught me what friendship meant, and I believe that they set the standard for every relationship going forward. Through them I had my first lesson in what it meant to be a friend.

And through them I had my first lesson in letting go.

She moved away to another neighborhood when we were in elementary school; we  tried to keep our promise to always be best friends, and for awhile, we were. We attended each other’s birthday parties and on summer afternoons, we roller skated on her new driveway while belting out the songs of Annie (much to her mother’s chagrin, I’m sure). But she was a year ahead of me in school and now in another district, and soon the days that we would visit each other became fewer and fewer.

I still cut through her old backyard, the property that edged to the back of my own, on my way to meet the curly-haired girl I was still lucky enough to have nearby. Though the three of us had all been close, she and I were inseparable. We filled our days playing Kingdom on black plastic garbage bags full of clothes that piled high in her basement or on the wooden swingset in the corner of my backyard; we spent Friday nights at her house where I watched in awe as they observed Shabbat before we raced outside to capture the summertime fireflies.

I was there when her brother was named; she was there at my first communion party. We attended the same summer camp, were in the same classes at school, and a birthday wasn’t a birthday without her to help celebrate.

When we turned thirteen, I attended her Bat Mitzvah, but by the time I was confirmed, we had already grown apart.

I never understand how things could change so much, so fast. Especially during the shifting years of adolescence, when emotions ran high and life-comprehension and experience was low, I couldn’t understand that things wouldn’t always forever be the same. A best friend, I thought I had learned, was a best friend. I never once believed that a friendship could fade.

Which is why I think the hurt ran so deep when I realized that ours had.

But I couldn’t have known this then. At ten years old, all I knew was that she was spending less and less time with me and more and more time with the neighbor girl that bordered her own backyard. I remember there were fewer sleepovers, fewer after-school rushes to play at each other’s houses, and fewer phone calls. I remember choosing partners for projects in school…

And the first time we didn’t choose each other.

Despite these changes, there was never any ill-will between us, and slowly that deep sense of hurt and rejection, that sense of first loss, dissipated as new friendships were formed. Throughout middle school we remained friends as we formed our separate groups and discovered new best friends; in high school we shared smiles and laughter and waves of hello as we chatted in class or passed in the halls. And when we graduated, our class celebrating the end of one journey, we shared a hug and a promise to keep in touch — a promise that we’ve kept sporadically throughout the years thanks to email and Facebook.

No matter how much has changed, history just can’t be erased.

Throughout the years, I’ve had my share of people I’ve called my best friend, though in so many cases we would grow apart and move on. Being the overly-sensitive type that I am, I always took this personally, and as the years passed and the relationships changed, I think I somehow labeled each faded friendship as a sense of loss, abandonment, burying that rejection and fear of being forgotten — replaced — behind layers and layers of invisible, yet impenetrable, walls.

I tried not to care so much, tried to play these friendships cool, tried to remember what seemed inevitable: don’t get too close, don’t love too much, as you’re prone to doing, because they will only leave you.

You’ll only get hurt in the end.

During these years, I’ve loved and I’ve lost. Some have left my life willingly, some have left my life permanently, but, no matter how they occurred, the pain of these losses run deep and will be something I will always struggle to understand and reconcile.

And yet, little by little, I’m starting to come to terms with it. Little by little, I’m beginning to heal. Because I’ve realized what I have now — what I think I’ve always been looking for since those first experiences years and years ago. An understanding,  a lesson learned. A knowledge that growing up means change, and with change comes new hope.

And new friendships.

The words “best friend” somehow seemed spoiled over the years — because I think I had been foolishly too willing to use it, too eager to label friends, longing to find those I could love completely and who would love me in return. At the same time, the words became sacred, and suddenly I found myself unwilling to utter the phrase for fear that history would repeat itself, as it had time and again over the course of my life.

It has taken me awhile to find them — those people who I dare now call my best, oldest, and dearest friends, those kindred spirits I find myself so grateful for (and so many more who have come to mean so much to me).  They’ve taught me that people won’t always leave you; they’ve taught me that no matter how much you love, they will love you that much more in return.

People come in and out of our lives and there’s no one to blame — least of all ourselves. Yet there are those who will always remain, no matter how you change, no matter how far apart you are, no matter how long it has been.

These are the ones to hold onto, the true friendships that last a lifetime.

Somehow, I find myself grateful for the growing pains I’ve experienced throughout the years.

They’ve taught me how to love.

And I know that I’ll always be grateful to these people who have crept into my life and woven a permanent tapestry of love on my heart.

They’ve shown me that friendship is allowing yourself to be loved in return.

Here before my eyes, many roads ahead
Time for me to choose one way now
If I take a chance, what lies down the road?
Feeling so confused, turned around…
Colbie Caillat, “Older”

You’re six years old and playing in the sandbox that lies at the edge of the property at your best friend’s house. Plastic buckets, shovels, sieves, and trucks litter the ground as the two of you work diligently at building the perfect castle, creating moats and roads — mapping out a life that isn’t yours, though you can imagine it so vividly, can see how the story is supposed to go.

You dip your hand into the sand, and when you lift it out, it trickles down your tiny tanned arm. You grin as you spread your fingers and watch the grains fall loose, never realizing in your youthful innocence how easily something can slip through your fingers.

* * * * *

You’re eleven years old and riding your bicycle back from a friend’s house, frantic to find your parents to ask an all-important question: your friends are all going to see a new movie that’s playing in the theater downtown and you want to go, too. Because what would that mean if you missed out? You’re a part of that group; after all, they’re your friends.

A phone call later and you’ve realized they’ve left without you. Forgotten. You hold back hot tears, remind yourself that you’re too old to cry, but a sob escapes you and you rush into your mom’s arms. The hurt feels so deep, but you can’t put into words what it means. You’re too young to know what loneliness feels like.

* * * * *

You’re seventeen years old and meeting with your guidance counselor. What are your interests, what’s your budget, how are your grades, what size classes do you prefer?  How far do you want to be from home. She types in your answers, and as the program calculates your best-fit college choices, the only thought you have is of home and your family and your boyfriend and friends and how, in a year’s time, you’ll have to leave it all behind.

You walk away with the choices in your hand, a decision that you’re not ready to make, knowing your life is going to change, not certain that you’re ready for it. There’s safety in those halls and comfort in the classrooms and people that you’ve come to know so well. For the first time in your young adult life, you feel the weight of time clinging to you. It’s the first time — not the last — that you ever wished you could go back to something more simple, to freeze a moment, to have life remain just as it is.

* * * * *

You’re twenty-two years old and waiting your turn in line. A wink from one of your favorite professors, a nod of encouragement from another. Your name. A handshake. A diploma. As you see your dad snapping pictures and look to the stands to find your family, as you hug friends and pose for pictures, a feeling not-altogether new bubbles up inside of you and makes your eyes shine with emotion. Pride. Gratitude. Purpose. You know where you’re going and who you’re becoming. You’re an adult now — isn’t that what this means? You’re ready for it, you’ve prepared for it, you’re eager for an entire future that lies ahead, just waiting for you.

You never stop to think that life can turn out so differently than what you have planned.

* * * * *

Twenty-six years old now. You’re driving in your car on an open highway, the radio playing a melancholy tune. You look in the rearview mirror and see the place from where you’ve just come and up ahead you can see clearly where you want to go. You think back to all you’ve learned along this way, all you’ve experienced, all you’ve felt. You know what it’s like to let things slip through your fingers. You know what it feels like to be alone…And not alone. You understand indecision and uncertainty and pride and purpose, love and loyalty and friendship and family.

You know how much can change.

You know what it’s like to be so aware of time.

You know what it means to be human.

And as you continue driving now, you realize what you see in the rearview mirror is getting further and further away, but you’re not getting any closer. No, you have so much farther to go yet…

So much still to learn.

Life is bigger
It’s bigger than you…
REM, “Losing My Religion”

It’s Sunday night. Easter. It seems somehow appropriate that I’m writing this post today, of all days, though I’ve been thinking about the subject for weeks now.

I find myself once again asking questions, again wanting to learn anything and everything about the world. I find myself again searching for a purpose, searching for an understanding…

Trying to figure out where I belong.

Faith is one of those things that I always believed was deeply personal and not necessarily meant as a subject for debate. But I’ve since realized that I’ve recently undertaken it as a type of spiritual journey to figure out what I believe in and where I stand.

Right now, I’m just not sure.

I grew up Roman Catholic just as my parents did before me, but with a Jewish best friend, I spent many Friday nights throughout my childhood watching as her family observed Shabbat. I attended mass every Sunday, eating cheerios and coloring in my books until I was old enough to sit still and actually listen to the priests and their sermons. I mouthed the words to repetitive prayers, not knowing what was being said but secretly loving the vocal rhythm and the soft murmuring of the congregation around me.

When I was seven or eight, I had my first Holy Communion and was thrilled because that meant I could participate like all the grown-ups did and eat what I thought was a cracker and drink grape juice (imagine my surprise when I found out it was actually wine). Sunday nights meant hour-long CCD classes for the next few years in preparation of the holy sacrament of Confirmation. I learned the history of the Bible, I recited the prayers, and I even attended youth group events and sang in the children’s choir.

When we turned thirteen, I went to my friend’s Bat Mitzvah and watched her read from the Torah. That Spring, I was Confirmed along with more than a dozen other parishes from the area in a huge event over which the Bishop presided.

That was the last mass I attended.

Over the years, though my belief  in religion faded, my spirituality only continued to blossom. And while there were times when that belief wavered, when anger and pain clouded my personal faith, there remained, still, a lingering sense that there was something greater than even ourselves, that there was something timeless and beautiful and full of hope and purpose.

My country is the world, and my religion is to do good. – Thomas Paine

Growing up as I did, I know that my beliefs are intertwined in Catholicism and Christianity. Yet, there is so much more that I believe in and can’t quite explain. I believe in karma, I believe in fate, yet freewill, and I believe that I am closest to God in nature. I believe in balance and harmony and doing unto others as you’ll have them do unto you.

In trying to put these personal beliefs into words, in trying to understand where I stand, I’ve begun studying world religions. Ok, so I’m reading The Idiots Guide to World Religions, but it’s a start. And while  I’m finding that bits and pieces of various religions speak to me, there’s not one that I completely agree with.

And so here I am, feeling like I’m on a journey to understand my spiritual self and my place in the world.

Not entirely sure where I fit in.

Not entirely sure that I want to.