Soul Sisters

"Tonight, we were meant to fight."
-- Margo Clower

God works in mysterious ways.  Emotional drama aside, I had a pretty busy day and evening feeling levelheaded and mellow. My mind was zoned out, my body was moving, and my heart was pleasantly numb. Basically, I had complete control over my stormy emotions--and why not? Why not keep your feelings in glass bottles; when exposed, they're not going to do much more than send a rain cloud to follow you the rest of the day. I figured I was doing a great service to myself.

Nine-thirty rolls around and it's time to go on a "phone date" with my friend Margo. We've been ethereal friends for about nine years now, and we've seen each other through the best and worst of life. We are both stubborn, so regardless of our personal hurdles, we always find a bit of star dust to sprinkle on the other whenever we talk. It's too much of a multifaceted relationship to describe, as Margo seems a bit otherworldly almost every time I speak to her. She's probably my better half in many ways, but the best way I can describe her is my Soul Sister.

Our phone date is going pretty well. Margo shares her heart's fears and burdens as I listen with every intent to shower her in exhortation as soon as she finishes speaking. And when she finished, I did exactly as I had planned and said exactly what I planned to say, exactly how I planned to say it. Well, the polar ice caps must have melted, or maybe the equator froze, because from zero-to-sixty, Margo and I were in a pretty heated shouting match. I didn't even realize what was happening until I felt myself sit straight up while my hands shook. Adrenaline and sweat, that's all I can remember. Margo was crying, and I felt just as cold as ice. All in all, a horrible experience in the moment.

I've never argued with Margo in our nine years of friendship. Ever. Not one time. In fact, she's always been a break from the reality of life and its complex nature. Most of our time together was spent surrounded by candles or incense, soothing music, and papers scattered all over her bed or mine. Or, maybe it was a long night of shared poetry and laughter, grueling stories, or lofty dreams we were so sure we could touch if we just reached up high enough. Life with Margo has always been a fantasy land of mischief, dream-catching, and Godly encouragement mixed with sisterly love. I have never had one ill-feeling toward Margo, and vice versa. But tonight, we both simply snapped.

I said some things to her that I regretted, and she said some things that hurt her to say as well. And for a moment, I couldn't see the good in the situation. While she was speaking, I began to pray even while I rolled my eyes up at the ceiling, feeling completely justified in my emotions and equally sick in the stomach over our argument. There was no instant peace or great revelation, no booming thunder from God telling me what to say, how to say it, or how Margo was feeling. There was Margo, and there was me. And there was a choice. We could hang up and end the friendship (dramatic, but that's us) or we could fight it out until we either hated each other or loved each other to the point of tears. We chose the latter. Through stubbornness, hurt pride, mis-communication and a deeper sense of love, we talked about the issues, apologized for things said, and even learned a few things about each other.

Why is this argument so important to me? People argue with their friends and loved ones every day. We often hurt the ones we love the most, if for no other reason than we feel the most comfortable exposing ourselves to them. So, why is my argument with Margo so different?

Basically, I chalk it all up to transparency. As deep as my friendship with Margo is, we have never crossed the threshold of raw emotion targeted at one another. Past loves, broken friendships, even parents--we've had our fair share of heartache. But it's almost as if Margo and I have never had anything to argue about. Tonight, we were completely open and honest with one another. And as much as it hurt in the moment, we were able to come back to a place of love, and to also fuss through the mess. I think, honestly, the whole experience showed me the meaning of love, and the power it has when two people value one another equally.

Margo told me this: "When encouraging someone, you must also listen to what they are saying." And she is so right. Love is wonderful, but without long-suffering, it is not love. It's merely convenience.

Tonight, I have learned the value of love.
Tonight, we were meant to fight.

xo,

Syd

Building Bridges

So many times I find myself focusing on the things in my life which I need to cut out, or do more of. I need to study my Bible more frequently or in depth; or, I need to save money because one of these days I want to rent a beautiful one bedroom apartment in the city, with wood floors and a tiny space for my glass of wine and my laptop, cornered by a massive mahogany bookshelf which holds all of my old journals and maybe a struggling novel. Perhaps I need to spend more time on Earth than in my dreams--especially when I drive--and maybe I would find a bit more beauty in this quaintly savage life. Or, more recently, I need to stop worrying so much about life's moving currents and be satisfied with the fact that I'm no longer standing still on the bank. 

But in a meager turn of events, I've found myself unrelentingly in hot pursuit of female friends--"girlfriends." I suppose making friends is not so meager as it is common sense, but for someone who has spent much of her young adult life chasing the ideals of being a Gold Star Girlfriend to the opposite sex, scooping up a good female friend along the way hasn't been as much of a priority as it should. Now, however, I find myself feeling more settled in the cushion of life, and instead of nesting, I am seeking a few birdies to start flying with. I'll call it, Building Bridges.

I spent the early part of the afternoon with my budding female friend Rue. As a side note, I've got to admit that I feel completely childish getting so excited about making friends that stick, but we've all got to get our kicks somewhere. Anyway, Rue and I met up at the nail salon to catch up and gossip about ourselves. Surrounded by other pampered women and their toes, I felt completely relaxed. I mean, something so simple as getting ones nails done with a friend released tons of happy feelings, if only for the fact that I haven't really done that before. Of course, I go to the nail salon with the girls in my family, but sitting with Rue, I felt completely... independent. The nail salon might seem a strange place to discover one's sense of independence; nevertheless, I found a bit of mine and I savor it even now. 

After the salon, we met up at Willy's to have some made-to-order burritos and more conversation. This conversation was more in depth. Rue and I often share our struggles and inner turmoils with one another after we've had some lighthearted fun. But the experience is always so refreshing because she pulls scripture and encouragement out of me as easily as pulling floss from its container. And Rue is so easy to talk to, I find myself telling her the truth without fear of judgment or backlash. She makes my complicated thoughts simpler, mostly for the fact that she is an outside party looking in on my bouncy brain. I've never had a friend I could call up and say, "Let's meet up for lunch and shopping," or "Let's schedule a movie day on Friday," and just like that, we're there and having a great time. I don't feel like I owe her my soul if I have to cancel last minute, nor does she apologize if she has to turn down one of my invitations. It's an easy, lighthearted, and refreshing friendship. 

Many women may have quite a few "Rues" in their life, and if they do, I consider them blessed. Because I am happy to have built this bridge to my friend Rue. 

xo,

Syd

Just Write.

I've been trying to exercise that writing muscle in my brain (or fingertips?) all night. Maybe not all night, but at least for the past two hours. I can promise that I have probably been writing a whole bunch of nonsense, but it's better than the nothing that I've been doing so much with.

As of next weekend, I will be a healthy twenty-six-year-old. While most women my age are getting engaged or married, or maybe creating some new life forms, I am having a severe case of mid-twenties crisis. No, really. I swear up and down that I am 26-going-on-30. My best friend is happily married, my sister is getting married next month, and I can count on one finger how many ladies would be in my wedding. Wait, two fingers--I've included myself as the bride. 

Wedding humor aside, I'm not actually anxious about the fluff of eternal love. Turning 26 doesn't tingle my sense because I think I'm  missing out on the beauty of "til death do us part." Actually, I'm biting my nails to the quick because I haven't published a novel yet. Yes, that's my mid-twenties crisis. All these years of journaling, writing poetry, essaying until I can't focus, and not one book has been birthed from these achy little fingers. Really! Life is one  big experience worth having, and I've spent so many years journaling about this or that--but not once have I stopped to write a  book about it...or anything! I'm appalled, honestly, and completely terrified. I have everything I need to write a novella of the stars, yet something is stopping me. What is it? Oh, I don't know--FEAR. Fear of what? Rejection? Hardly. I plan to write under a pseudonym so all the critics can tear me a new one without even knowing who they've scarred. But I am afraid of letting my life slip by with nothing to show for it. I used to say, "Oh, I don't want to be anything grand; I just like to write for myself!" Modesty--shove it. I want to write for everyone! I suppose my biggest stumbling block is where to start?

How does one just...start? What do the greatest of greats do when confronted with the new and challenging task of writing a book? Or, in my case, finding the gusto to put a few thoughts onto the page and let the masterpiece write itself. Maybe my ideas are too lofty, too demanding? I can't say for sure. Really, my biggest issue is material. I don't exactly know what kind of a book I'd like to write. I could honestly sit here all day and blog my eyeballs out, but it wouldn't bring me any closer to completing--or starting--a novel. Perhaps I'll dig into my own juicy past and bring all of my skeletons back to life for the sake of a few good reviews. 

I think, honestly, the best way to begin a novel is just to...write it. Please, someone, get this girl the  Pulitzer.

XO,

Syd