PickledCherub

My life has quite diverged from what I thought it was going to be when I was in High School. For a while I thought I was going to be a buddhist nun, or a poet, or a rabbi.

I get a lot of time to sit around and think. Maybe, too much time. Which isn't to say that I'm unhappy,or anything, but maybe just a bit surprised. I enjoy watching the trees begin to go green. I like watering plants and starting seedlings. I like a little aimlessness.

I went out on a Red Cross call Monday night, got lost on the way, got stuck in traffic, and then sat in my team leader's car calling hotels and filling out forms, sitting silent and powerless as a middle aged woman cried, stunned that her house had caught fire, grateful that someone was there, in cold, rainy Beaverton, for no good reason except that we were, to help her and her family.

It's not a bad life. I write song lyrics, and that's like writing poems, except not as 'gay.' Steve and I sat outside work the other night, smoking, and we talked about being moody people, about being creative people, about where our sadness goes when at a certain point it has to go somewhere. "I think it's a good thing, I feel lucky to be how I am, even if it's difficult, because sometimes I make something that's cool." I don't know if I believe any individual life has a purpose, but I do know that some people are driven and focused, and are therefore brimming with creative output; and some people are products of their mental states, only producing when it's necessary. I fall mostly into the second camp (although there are definitely moments when I'm in the first). I don't mind how I am, because there's no point in being concerned about things you can't control, like how the thunderstorms out here are puny compared to the ones I grew up with. Maybe you're grown up when you realize that there's only so much you can change.