Motherhood...

"I like this..." I thought to myself as I sat there, in my bright purple sea-horse sweater and gray shorts, a million pillows surrounding me and a crick in my neck from leaning on one side too long. It was the end of my night, and where else would I be but in my over sized bed, reading my self-help book that I purchased at the Christian bookstore for $14.99 in the "your-life-sucks-you-will-find-the-answers-here" section.

The past few weeks have been very long. Alone time and rest were much needed. For almost a month, it feels like I've been in perpetual labor and at one point I think the baby got stuck half-way out. All I could do was helplessly lay there in pain, beads of sweat gracing my forehead, hoping a doctor would come by, grab it by the neck, and shout a big "One more push, Jordan!" to finally put an end to the nightmare. That's graphic, but its the only way I can describe my experiences as of lately.

I will say, however, that I am now in the happy, transitional stages of motherhood. I named my imaginary child "Healing", I thought it was most appropriate. Healing is a tender little girl, peaceful, full of surprises. She smiles and laughs at the simplest things, brings joy to all who see her, and makes me proud to call her my own. Her skin is so new and fresh and pure and...

Innocent.

She is vulnerable to the elements and is in need of protection from all outside predators. She requires nurturing and gentle care. She needs a place to be safe to grow and be healthy. As her mother, I will watch her take her first steps, lose her first tooth, eat peas for the first time and make that weird scrunchy face that only children make when eating something healthy and flavorless.

Nothing is going to come between me and dear, little Healing. Nothing. Like a mother bear protecting her cubs, I will allow no person, place, or thing to harm my child. And I will not allow distractions and interruptions to take away these precious, irreplaceable moments of peace and joy.

Nothing.

Descendant of Shem...

I just sat at the red light, ignorant to the world bustling around me, in complete awe of the gigantic trees dressing the sidewalk. I had no choice but to take in their robust leaves and branches one at a time.

"Jordan, you drive past these beauties everyday. Why haven't you stopped and appreciated them before?" my Friend asked me.

Jaw-dropped and wide-eyed with wonder,

"I'm a criminal...and a nature-hater..." was my reply.

I stared and stared and stared until a gigantic smile slowly crept across my face. I couldn't help myself but laugh at the fact that to any normal observer this would appear as though I was talking to myself. Its ok, you too, can believe that I'm nothing more than a tree-hugging crazo. I don't mind one bit. Neither does my Friend.

I continued to watch creation dance before me and daydreamed about the history of these trees. Who planted them? For what purpose? These trees look like they've seen so much during their reign of state road 436. To how many passerbyers did they become a comfy shadow place; a quiet resting spot for the everyday man? How many children played and laughed under their branches, climbed their stalky arms and legs like wild apes in the amazon, shared a snack pack at the bottom of their overflowing roots on the ground, played hide-and-seek in the richness of their leaves? I wonder if there are girl trees and boy trees? Mommy trees and Daddy trees? Do trees get married? I think I need to get a book on trees. Are these trees friends with each other? I mean, I hope so. They happen to be planted next to each other and will remain there for years and years, they might as well find each other a little bit dandy.

Can trees be sad?

I thoroughly enjoyed these sites as the wind blew through every limb, caressing their shiny, greened jewels of splendor, tousling them to and fro at the very whim of God's breath...

Heavenly.

And then I heard the car behind me honk a loud, impatient reminder that I was fantasizing about snack packs and emotional trees in the middle of a highway and needed to pay attention. They must have been in a hurry to drop off little Tommy at school so they could make it back home to catch the last segment of Regis and Kelly. This only makes sense.

The start of my day has since set me up on a quest to learn my own personal history. The kind that involves my origin and ancestry. So I voyaged into the only history book worth reading.

My bible.

I knew that when I named this blog "Planting Trees" I would come to understand the meaning behind that title more and more as the days go by, as the stories come forth. But as I begin to plant the tree of my own life, my own story, I know that I am digging into something lasting (Andrew Peterson, you're a rock star!) and I'm finding out where I come from and why I am the way that I am. This is highly important if I want to plant trees. I don't think the trees of my life--my character and abundance of love--should be haphazardly planted.

So I found out, in the great Book, that I am a distant relative of Shem, one of Noah's three sons. Yes, I'm talking "Noah's Ark" kind of Noah. That one. Yes. We are related. Pretty gnarly. I know that Adam and Eve are my parents from the way-back-original days of old, but to know that SHEM is a family member of mine totally blows me away. His name means "name" in Hebrew. That's awesome. I wonder how many jokes his brothers Ham and Japheth made...

"Hey you! Whats your......NAME?" bahahaha

This is where my mind goes.

But what is uber fantastic is that his son, Terah, was the father of Abraham, whom we are all descendants of. Just like the promise that God gave to Abraham, that he would be blessed with children as countless as the stars--for the Bible illiterate--we are now living out that promise. You and me. Whoa.

We are his many trees. We are the lasting evidence of a promise that was and will be...forever. How incredible!

Now my question is, how are we planting our own trees? I believe our trees consist of the character, abundance of love, and beauty that we allow to flow out of us unto all mankind. A steadfast monument, a never ending promise...something lasting.

Those trees are worth planting.

Have you started planting your own?

If You Smell Gas, Its Me...

It started as any other day normally would. Woke up with my pillows surrounding me from all directions, opened up my dark gray curtains to let the happy sun awaken my day, and headed towards to the bathroom to be relieved...

----Yes. We will become that acquainted with each other, its part of the deal. 'Member?----

...and then I begin my normal observation of myself by staring at my reflection in the mirror, completely natural thinking, "Yep, this is as good as its gonna get". I then continue to my room to hang out with Joyce Meyer for a little bit while I get dressed for work, all while hearing my brother squeal like a banshee as he burns his forehead with a flat iron.

A typical day, nothing special.

Except, today was a little different. Because of an unexpected dream that left me somewhat unsettled, I just had a sense that things would be a little off today. Sometimes I can feel it coming. Like when bad weather would be festering in the atmosphere and my dog would lay on the floor and not move even if I prodded her with a treat; she just knew that something was up and if it meant instinctively ducking on the ground like a bank robbery was about to take place then she'd do it.

Yes. Just like that.

This morning, I could just feel the wind moving in such a way that my spidey-senses went on full alert and I could do nothing but wait, in uncomfortable anticipation, of what ever strange things were coming my way. But I continued with my normal routine and decided that if I was going to have to kung fu my way through the next 24 hours, then I might as well splash an extra helping of Dior on my neck and wear some heels for extra leverage. We've previously established that smelling nice makes me feel good, but I will say that I sprayed a little too liberally and left the house not wanting to be around myself for a while until the power of the potion faded. I hopped in my car, with Confidence in the passengers seat, and exited my neighborhood to find the nearest gas station to fill her up.

And there it was.

I arrived at the local Race Trac, awkwardly got out of my car (heels are no fun), check card in hand, and discovered that I was too far from the pump to actually reach the nozzle into my tank.

So...

I awkwardly got back into my driver's seat just as awkwardly as I had originally gotten out and drove up a bit to allow the nozzle to make friendly with my car, all the while not paying attention to the truck load of laborers watching me the entire time, having a lovely view up my dress--which was now flying wildly all over the place in the wind.

Hmmph.

I proceeded to use my check card, only to discover that I had no idea how to operate the particular gas pump I was at. Every button seemed to be stuck, and no matter how many times I click 'enter' the stinking debit wouldn't go through.

Finally my card approved and I began to feed 'old Betsy with highly expensive love juice known as gasoline. Now me and gasoline go way back. I remember being a child and loving the smell so much that I asked my mom if I could have my own perfume made to smelled like it. I was a strange child. I also enjoyed the smell of sharpie's. As of recently, however, maybe I've just been around one too many landscapers to find the smell utterly revolting and dislike filling my tank so much that I avoid it at all costs.

Lets get back to my story before I lose you.

I was nearly finished, hispanic men whistling away, when I decided to make the sorry mistake of tipping off my tank. I do this occasionally and was fully aware of the risk that I would be taking. Low and behold, you guessed it, a gushing tidal wave of highly flammable liquid shot out right at me onto my pretty new dress and all over the side of my car, while the man filling up across from me couldn't help himself but shoot a "you're such a girl/I want to help you but I'm not going to" look as I screamed in disbelief of my now wreaking predicament.

Whats worse is that my skin started to tingle in a very unhappy way, making me react even more helplessly, thus confirming the disapproving glances from the not-so-gentlemanly gentleman that got into his car and drove off, leaving me soaked and hormonal.

My first reaction was to call my mom. For all I knew, I was about to catch on fire at the slightest movement and if it meant saying my last goodbye's, then now was the time to do so. But, alas, she did not answer. And neither did any of the other individuals that I called to see if friction on the seat of my car could cause me to spontaneously combust. I finally came to the conclusion that I could not die from having gasoline on my clothes. That is, unless, I lit myself up with a match or ran past the smoking section of the parking lot, purposely catching cigarette embers with my skirt. That type of suicide would be impossible. And if it were, then completely ridiculous.

So now I am sitting in my office. My new co-worker friend, JR, didn't seem to mind my funk too bad as we chatted about life and love and God and stuff. But now I am trapped in a smelly dress that causes me to apologize to every person that comes within 10 feet of me. I have now got it down pat:

"If you smell gas. Its me."

Only When Your Armpits Smell Good...

I'm watching a magnificent storm come towards me. It is quite a moment to capture, as I sip my cup of chilled water, now causing a frozen tundra to shoot down my esophagus into the abyss of my digestive system.

Water is a mystery to behold. I can't get my mind wrapped around it. It has a way of touching things and clearing them out. Its like all of the world gets a nice, warm, bubble bath when it rains. Minus the bubbles.

Let me backtrack a little bit.

The first words that I heard when I woke up today were, "JORDAN!! You're going to be late for work! Get your butt up and take a shower!!!". I know that doesn't seem like a restful start to the day, but its what I heard. Was this the voice of my mother? No. A sibling? No. Myself? No. But it was a voice and I heard it. Now, was it an audible voice? No. Call me crazy, I really think that my special Friend speaks to me through my thoughts, and I'm finding that it is mostly telling me to just do whats responsible, whats right. What an adult should be doing.

Like brushing my teeth, for instance. Let me tell you, I consider myself a pretty decent human being when it comes to personal hygiene. I enjoy the freshness of a hot shower and smelling like the mixed potion of lavender and chamomile--all with the secret knowing that my powder fresh armpits are ready to triumphantly march full force into the battle of the day. It is quite delightful. I feel better when I smell good. Fair enough? But let us not discuss my armpits.

Teeth.

My parents always instilled in me to brush my teeth. They did. All the time. But I will say that I got into the habit of not brushing my teeth before bed, only in the morning. Lets be real, I don't want to knock anyone out on my way up the elevator to my office by, in all good intentions, chirping a swift "Hey, how ya doin?" and killing them with severe dragon breath. That would not make me any friends. And being the hippie, youngster on my floor I need as many congeniality points as I can muster. I've considered it, and I think hygiene is a good start.

So my Friend has been really thoughtful by making some reasonable suggestions in the hopes that I will listen and better my life. For instance, like whispering a nice "Brush your teeth, please.." just as I'm about to doze off into the land of dreamsical mountains and unicorns. Each time, I tell you, I grumble at this lovely encouragement, peel myself out of my new Ikea sheets, and head for the bathroom.

But as the days go by, I'm finding that being disciplined in the small stuff is exactly what being an adult is supposed to be and I'm beginning to make wise choices in the handling of the small stuff. And for past two nights, I've beat the Voice at its game, by reaching down for my sparkly gray toothbrush and scrubbing away--before I'm beckoned.

Now, I've always been the "stick it to the man" type of person. My goodness, the words"kiss it" were what I painted as the summary of who I was in high school. Literally. My senior classmates and I were all given the opportunity to write on a wall in our school, with our finger-painted hand prints included. We were encouraged to write whatever we wanted to leave as a lasting impression of who we were, what we were about, etc...a memo, if you will, of what the "best years of our lives" looked like for the coming generations. And what did I write?

"Kiss It."

Oh, yes. I did.

I think that if I had a little more chutzpa I would have included a photograph of my middle finger shooting off all innocent bystanders. I was a rebel with a true cause. My cause was to let everyone know how little I considered their opinions, view of me, like of me even. I didn't care what you thought and, you better believe, I was gonna let you know it.

----I'm so glad that I met God----

So let me get back to my point. I'm finding that obedience in the smallest stuff is what makes my life so much more rich and colorful. Doing whats right, I'm finding, is the most freeing experience. No matter how much I dislike being corrected, waking up with a clean mouth (and heart) feels, well, really good. Its like that toothpaste flavor in your mouth that lingers all day long. Even when I eat something to cover that taste, it will still be there when the clouds depart. That's my comparison to obedience. Even if I screw up a little, trip on my feet, step on a kitten, my obedience in the small stuff refreshes me all day long. I have a clean conscience, a clear mind, and my armpits are still ready to wage war...

But only when they smell good.

Hmm...

A blog.

Hmm...

As I sit here, staring at this computer screen wondering to myself "why on earth a blog, Jordan?", I have to recount my earlier experiences in the blog-world to fully be able to express the amount of disbelief and complete uncertainty that I face as I contemplate if writing to random people--who I may never know read this--is actually necessary. Will this add anything to my life, or even yours for that matter? Will this make a difference at all in the grand scheme of things if I leave things as are and never write at all? Is this necessary.

Well, I gave it a go-around and have finally come to terms with myself that, no, this is not necessary. Nope. Not at all. Whatsoever.

However, I am finding that being a 22 year old, not-a-girl-but-not-yet-a-woman kind of a person (thanks britney!) has been quite eventful,to say the very least, and I think that it might be refreshing and dare I say "interesting" to share my life in such a way that it is utterly transparent and will shatter the world-renowned cement walls of my heart--which got a little claustrophobic, might I add--thus making it impossible to mask my right to be human by calling myself a "private person". What is a private person anyway? Poser.


So now I will reminisce with you my former years of blog life. I hear MXPX playing in the backround...

The countless days, mindlessly wandering through cyberspace, writing about my everyday mishaps and victories--everything from spilling chocolate milk on my favorite Rufio t-shirt and praying for John Puchelt to get struck by lightning. To landing a lead role in a musical of epic proportions and sticking it to the dean of students. To jumping into a fountain with all of my clothes on and almost getting arrested by the Winter Park police department. To failing math class and promising to dedicate my first album to my teacher to get bonus work---it didn't fly. To singing my heart out to a Dion Warwick song in a Mcdonald's french fry costume infront of the entire faculty and student body. To obtaining life-long bragging rights for kissing the cutest guy in the whole entire school district. On the mouth. Twice.

Yes.

...those were the days.

I never, and when I say never, I mean NEVER thought I'd ever do this again. For realz, homeboy, I meant it. I didn't stutter. I promised to NEVER expose my life to people again. Not this way, anyhow.

But now that I'm a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, and I work a little bit harder (thanks christina!--btw, do you sense the girl-power theme in this blog? omgosh)...I have come to terms that I'm free to be me. And you're free to be you (francesca, girl, you know me too well!). And thats just as good as it can get.

I can't promise to make you laugh, make you cry, make my life sound like a Billy Joel song...

All I can promise is to be me. Thats it. Nothing else.

Now, be forewarned, if you read this and think you know "me" pretty well...you might be a little terrorized at first. I'm not as perfect as I try to appear to be. I think my life has been full of a whole lot of trying...and not enough living.

...and thats exactly why I'm blogging.

Its time to live.

Its time to be me...and not be sorry for it.