Sent me this e-mail today that I found fantastic. It had a graphic in it that said:
"This is the fairy tale that should have been read to us when we were little:
Once upon a time in a land far away,
a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess
happened upon a frog as she sat contemplating ecological issues
on the shores of an unpolluted pond
in a verdant meadow near her castle.
The frog hopped into the princess' lap and said:
"Elegant Lady,
I was once a young handsome prince, until an evil witch cast a spell upon me.
One kiss from you, however, and I wil turn back into the dapper, young prince that I am.
and then, my sweet,
we can marry and set up housekeeping in your castle with my mother;
where you can prepare my meals,
clean my clothes,
bear my children,
and forever feel grateful and happy doing so."
That night,
as the princess dined sumptuously
on lightly sautéed frog legs,
seasoned in a white wine
and onion cream sauce,
she chuckled and thought to herself:
I don't fuckin' think so."
And this little anecdote, it charmed me in a way that I haven't been before. Because it isn't a man-bashing, hate-filled bitchfest about how men subjugate women and think of them as inferior. Rather, it was a witty, funny, narrative on how no matter what, women and men are independent of one another. Neither should be subjugated.
Now, I may just be reading too much into this, but I don't think so.
<3
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Ireland De-brief and Other Sentimental Shit
Disclaimer: So I have somewhere around ten or eleven drafts of half-finished blog posts chillin' out on my computer. I've decided that they aren't going to be finished. Instead, I'm going to try to use this blog as a journal in the loosest sense of the word. So here's a tangent-filled summary of how my trip to Ireland went.
I want to change the world, instead I sleep. -Ingrid Michaelson "Keep Breathing"
To this point, I've really not done all that much in the way of actively participating in my life. I go through the motions and wake up every day, fulfill my obligations and then go to bed. Rinse and repeat. And I'm only 20 years old... which is a scary thought. But when I arrived in Ireland, my heart fell out of my chest and landed with a thud on the bog, right next to some sheep shit.
From where I see it, I have two options at this point.
Option 1: Graduate with a BA in anthropology, find a job in the states, work, have a family, retire, and die a successful human being. So basically your cookie-cutter 'dream' life, complete with white picket fence (or barbed-wire fence, depending on the neighborhood). Think MASH (go ahead and click it), those of you who played that horrible, horrible game that almost always ended up giving me the exact opposite of a dream life (weird kid in the corner whose name I don't remember, garbage truck, parrot, 8 kids, in Vegas).
...yeah. No thanks.
Option 2: Live my life with the passion and vigor I discovered I had in Ireland. Like, actually live. College life isn't a life at all, or at least one that is maintainable. It's four years of your life stuck in the liminal stage between being an adult (18) and actually being an adult, a stage normally complemented with copious amounts of alcohol and alcohol- and ramen-stained textbooks. Don't get me wrong, I love being in college. It's the only time in my life that I will be able to say "It's okay, I'm a college student!" in answer to some of those really awkward questions that only get more awkward as time goes by (Prime example: post-Halloween night walk of shame). You can't do this shit forever.
So yeah... I'm gonna go with Door #2.
I want to live again. I hadn't really felt alive until I went to Ireland and got my hands a bit dirty on this god-forsaken, beautiful mountain with sheep bleating 24/7 learning how to do archaeology. Whether it was the country, the people, the scenery, the work, or the independence of being in a foreign place alone, being there for seven weeks inherently changed the way I look at things. I fell in love with life all over again, after being out of the game for a while and really just robot-ing my way around. I really lived while I was there, though my parents seem to think it was an altered version of reality. That could be due to the ridiculous amount of Guinness that now flows through my veins. But I know it's actually due to the fact that while I was getting covered in mud and nearly getting simultaneously blown and rained off a mountainside, I found myself and I found what I want to do with my life (and also found my favorite beer). To me, it was more real than any part of my life had been up until that point. It still is.
I found myself while I was there, and I think what depresses me the most about being back is not knowing whether or not I'll find myself again while I'm here. I may know more about myself now, but the environment (social, physical, mental) is so dramatically different here, kind of like how it would look to put a dryer sheet over a camera lens. I missed my family and my friends, but now I miss myself. When I left Achill, it was worse than any breakup I had ever been in (which is definitely a few..). The only thing that's keeping me sane is knowing that it's temporary. My resolution is to live every day that I have to be away from archaeology and Ireland to the fullest and as if it could be my last, rather than mope around like I have been because I have to be here. If I have faith in anything, it's that I'm going to go back and I'm going to do all that I can to stay.
Just for nostalgia's sake:
I want to change the world, instead I sleep. -Ingrid Michaelson "Keep Breathing"
To this point, I've really not done all that much in the way of actively participating in my life. I go through the motions and wake up every day, fulfill my obligations and then go to bed. Rinse and repeat. And I'm only 20 years old... which is a scary thought. But when I arrived in Ireland, my heart fell out of my chest and landed with a thud on the bog, right next to some sheep shit.
From where I see it, I have two options at this point.
Option 1: Graduate with a BA in anthropology, find a job in the states, work, have a family, retire, and die a successful human being. So basically your cookie-cutter 'dream' life, complete with white picket fence (or barbed-wire fence, depending on the neighborhood). Think MASH (go ahead and click it), those of you who played that horrible, horrible game that almost always ended up giving me the exact opposite of a dream life (weird kid in the corner whose name I don't remember, garbage truck, parrot, 8 kids, in Vegas).
...yeah. No thanks.
Option 2: Live my life with the passion and vigor I discovered I had in Ireland. Like, actually live. College life isn't a life at all, or at least one that is maintainable. It's four years of your life stuck in the liminal stage between being an adult (18) and actually being an adult, a stage normally complemented with copious amounts of alcohol and alcohol- and ramen-stained textbooks. Don't get me wrong, I love being in college. It's the only time in my life that I will be able to say "It's okay, I'm a college student!" in answer to some of those really awkward questions that only get more awkward as time goes by (Prime example: post-Halloween night walk of shame). You can't do this shit forever.
So yeah... I'm gonna go with Door #2.
I want to live again. I hadn't really felt alive until I went to Ireland and got my hands a bit dirty on this god-forsaken, beautiful mountain with sheep bleating 24/7 learning how to do archaeology. Whether it was the country, the people, the scenery, the work, or the independence of being in a foreign place alone, being there for seven weeks inherently changed the way I look at things. I fell in love with life all over again, after being out of the game for a while and really just robot-ing my way around. I really lived while I was there, though my parents seem to think it was an altered version of reality. That could be due to the ridiculous amount of Guinness that now flows through my veins. But I know it's actually due to the fact that while I was getting covered in mud and nearly getting simultaneously blown and rained off a mountainside, I found myself and I found what I want to do with my life (and also found my favorite beer). To me, it was more real than any part of my life had been up until that point. It still is.
I found myself while I was there, and I think what depresses me the most about being back is not knowing whether or not I'll find myself again while I'm here. I may know more about myself now, but the environment (social, physical, mental) is so dramatically different here, kind of like how it would look to put a dryer sheet over a camera lens. I missed my family and my friends, but now I miss myself. When I left Achill, it was worse than any breakup I had ever been in (which is definitely a few..). The only thing that's keeping me sane is knowing that it's temporary. My resolution is to live every day that I have to be away from archaeology and Ireland to the fullest and as if it could be my last, rather than mope around like I have been because I have to be here. If I have faith in anything, it's that I'm going to go back and I'm going to do all that I can to stay.
So how was my trip to Ireland? Well, it was completely eye-opening and life-changing.
I gained weight, got really, really dirty, collected more scars, learned some archaeology, met unforgettable people, spent a lot of money, fell in love, and became acquainted with myself. I'm going to carry that with me every day so that I can find that vigor and passion for life here, and I think that's the best way to live. At least until I return, that is. In my eyes, once you've found your place and your passion, sitting around and missing it is bad form when you've a plan to do something about it in the near future. Here's to rolling green hills and dirty trowels!Just for nostalgia's sake:
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Speech I Never Gave (Eight Years Later...)
I'm the luckiest girl in the world. That may sound strange, especially since today marks the eight-year anniversary of my dad's death. However, in those eight years, I've come to terms with a lot of things regarding our relationship and how it has changed me as a person, before and after he died.
My dad, Robert Davison, lived his life to the fullest (at least in the short amount of time that I knew him). From what I've been told by his friends, he was a hard, but generous, man. I don't know very much about his life before I was born, only the bits and pieces that I can remember from stories and what I've learned in recent years. I know he was in the army for a short period of time towards the end of World War II, but was released for medical reasons (he had rheumatic fever). I know he had a wife before he married my mother, and that he worked for the Alaska Railroad, starting at the bottom and working his way up until he was Superintendent of Transportation. During his career with the ARR, he built a cabin on homesteaded land with his dear friend Albert Bailey. He then retired (?) from the ARR and worked for the BNSF (Burlington Northern Santa Fe) Railroad, where he met many people that are still in my life today. He met my mother, they got married, and out I popped into the world.
He retired from the BNSF when I was young, which allowed him to spend pretty much all of his time with me (the time, that is, that wasn't spent watching the Seahawks and the Cardinals lose, eating Drumsticks [the dessert], and fixing up the triplex he owned until it reached near-perfection). These are small things that I remember about my dad. When I think hard enough, I can remember the way his aftershave smelled when he would get "snazzied" up to take me out to dinner on a Friday night, the tone of his voice when he would tell me to clean my fingernails or brush my hair, and the look in his eye whenever he looked at me and called me sweetheart. Every Valentine's Day and Christmas, I would walk into our living room and be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of spoiled-ness present-- any little girl would die to be as spoiled as I was. Every Saturday morning, he would make me strawberry waffles (a concoction of Eggo waffles, immense amounts of whipped cream, and some sort of fruit), cheesy scrambled eggs and bacon, or french toast; always on the plate was a piece of lettuce with some sort of cute little garnish. Seriously, looking back, I was one spoiled kid. This may sound cliche, but so be it: I would give back every gift I ever got, for any kind of holiday or for no reason at all, to just have him in my life still.
Realistically though, I know that everything my dad did for me, material or otherwise, was always in showing his love and his desires for me to succeed in life; so wishing I could give them back would be in direct opposition to what he wanted. I miss my dad, to varying degrees, every single day. It's always harder during this time of the year, because although I don't remember a lot of things surrounding the time before and after he died, I remember the four days between his birthday (April 8) and his death (April 12) almost perfectly. April 8th, he had friends over, for what he thought (or knew, I guess) was his last birthday. I stayed in my room. I didn't really know how to react to anything at the time. That was a Tuesday. I think we visited him Wednesday and Thursday, but I know for sure we did Friday.
Friday, April 11, 2003, is probably a day that I will never forget. My mom had taken me over to see my dad in the afternoon, before I was going to a girl scout party that night. I remember being so excited that I just wanted to GET OUT OF THERE; I wanted to be with my friends, eating pizza and watching movies. So I hurriedly gave him a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and I left. My mom kind of berated me for not spending more time with him, but I didn't care. I had a great night with my friends, and we went to bed at a completely unreasonable hour for 12-year-olds (something like midnight). I woke up at 3:00 AM on Saturday with tears running down my face and not having any idea why; I shrugged it off and fell back asleep. Somewhere around 6:15, my troop leader came into the room and woke me up, saying that my mom was coming to get me. I was pissed, to be honest... Our troop was supposed to go to Vegas that day, to the Build-a-Bear workshop. What the hell was so important that I had to miss that? I knew as soon as the car pulled up though, and I should have known earlier. My mother told me that he had died. I didn't cry until we were away from my friends, and even then I was in disbelief. She told me he died around 3:00 AM... And it took me a long time to make the connection between when I woke up and when he died.
If I remember correctly (and I very well may not... a lot of things after he died are pretty fuzzy), I didn't speak at his memorial service. I didn't wear black either, because I didn't want to and my mom (thankfully) didn't make me. I cried, I know that for a fact, because my eyes hurt like hell the next day. My best friend at the time, Careese Carls, spoke for me, something I've never really thanked her for (Thanks Careese..).
The one thing that I wish I could have is a final conversation with him to tell him that I'm sorry for being such a shit sometimes, for not appreciating him as much as I should have. I want him to tell me that I'm doing alright, that he's proud of me, and that I'm still "the apple of his eye". I want the relationship that most of my friends have with their dads, the one that's matured to the stage of friendship or is on its way there. I may not believe in the things I used to believe in, but I know that somewhere, whether it be heaven, or the universe in general, my dad is watching me right now and probably thinking that I should stop crying. He wasn't perfect, but he was and is my father.
After all of this rambling, and the depressing mood of it all, it's probably even more out of place that I could consider myself lucky. I'll tell you why I'm lucky: Because my father loved me every single day that we were together. He and I had more time together in those twelve years than some people spend with their fathers in fifty years. Sure, we had disagreements, and there were times that weren't the best... but I never questioned the fact that he loved me or felt lucky to have me in his life. Obviously, I wish he was still here.. but he instilled in me honor, strength, and courage, all of which have gotten me to this point in my life and will continue to help me through life until I myself die.
So, I guess what I wanted to get across was this... that although I am sad (unbearably so, sometimes), I appreciate my dad and all that he did for me, and I love him more than I could ever possibly express. I was lucky to have had him in my life for the time that I did. Unfortunately the specific memories I have of us together will not always be around... but I will always remember the love and experiences that he gave me. I love you dad, thank you for everything.
In closing, I want to thank my family for being the best and for always supporting me in my mistakes and successes... throughout it all, they've never left my side.
Now do you see why I'm the luckiest girl in the world??
My dad, Robert Davison, lived his life to the fullest (at least in the short amount of time that I knew him). From what I've been told by his friends, he was a hard, but generous, man. I don't know very much about his life before I was born, only the bits and pieces that I can remember from stories and what I've learned in recent years. I know he was in the army for a short period of time towards the end of World War II, but was released for medical reasons (he had rheumatic fever). I know he had a wife before he married my mother, and that he worked for the Alaska Railroad, starting at the bottom and working his way up until he was Superintendent of Transportation. During his career with the ARR, he built a cabin on homesteaded land with his dear friend Albert Bailey. He then retired (?) from the ARR and worked for the BNSF (Burlington Northern Santa Fe) Railroad, where he met many people that are still in my life today. He met my mother, they got married, and out I popped into the world.
He retired from the BNSF when I was young, which allowed him to spend pretty much all of his time with me (the time, that is, that wasn't spent watching the Seahawks and the Cardinals lose, eating Drumsticks [the dessert], and fixing up the triplex he owned until it reached near-perfection). These are small things that I remember about my dad. When I think hard enough, I can remember the way his aftershave smelled when he would get "snazzied" up to take me out to dinner on a Friday night, the tone of his voice when he would tell me to clean my fingernails or brush my hair, and the look in his eye whenever he looked at me and called me sweetheart. Every Valentine's Day and Christmas, I would walk into our living room and be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of spoiled-ness present-- any little girl would die to be as spoiled as I was. Every Saturday morning, he would make me strawberry waffles (a concoction of Eggo waffles, immense amounts of whipped cream, and some sort of fruit), cheesy scrambled eggs and bacon, or french toast; always on the plate was a piece of lettuce with some sort of cute little garnish. Seriously, looking back, I was one spoiled kid. This may sound cliche, but so be it: I would give back every gift I ever got, for any kind of holiday or for no reason at all, to just have him in my life still.
Realistically though, I know that everything my dad did for me, material or otherwise, was always in showing his love and his desires for me to succeed in life; so wishing I could give them back would be in direct opposition to what he wanted. I miss my dad, to varying degrees, every single day. It's always harder during this time of the year, because although I don't remember a lot of things surrounding the time before and after he died, I remember the four days between his birthday (April 8) and his death (April 12) almost perfectly. April 8th, he had friends over, for what he thought (or knew, I guess) was his last birthday. I stayed in my room. I didn't really know how to react to anything at the time. That was a Tuesday. I think we visited him Wednesday and Thursday, but I know for sure we did Friday.
Friday, April 11, 2003, is probably a day that I will never forget. My mom had taken me over to see my dad in the afternoon, before I was going to a girl scout party that night. I remember being so excited that I just wanted to GET OUT OF THERE; I wanted to be with my friends, eating pizza and watching movies. So I hurriedly gave him a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and I left. My mom kind of berated me for not spending more time with him, but I didn't care. I had a great night with my friends, and we went to bed at a completely unreasonable hour for 12-year-olds (something like midnight). I woke up at 3:00 AM on Saturday with tears running down my face and not having any idea why; I shrugged it off and fell back asleep. Somewhere around 6:15, my troop leader came into the room and woke me up, saying that my mom was coming to get me. I was pissed, to be honest... Our troop was supposed to go to Vegas that day, to the Build-a-Bear workshop. What the hell was so important that I had to miss that? I knew as soon as the car pulled up though, and I should have known earlier. My mother told me that he had died. I didn't cry until we were away from my friends, and even then I was in disbelief. She told me he died around 3:00 AM... And it took me a long time to make the connection between when I woke up and when he died.
If I remember correctly (and I very well may not... a lot of things after he died are pretty fuzzy), I didn't speak at his memorial service. I didn't wear black either, because I didn't want to and my mom (thankfully) didn't make me. I cried, I know that for a fact, because my eyes hurt like hell the next day. My best friend at the time, Careese Carls, spoke for me, something I've never really thanked her for (Thanks Careese..).
The one thing that I wish I could have is a final conversation with him to tell him that I'm sorry for being such a shit sometimes, for not appreciating him as much as I should have. I want him to tell me that I'm doing alright, that he's proud of me, and that I'm still "the apple of his eye". I want the relationship that most of my friends have with their dads, the one that's matured to the stage of friendship or is on its way there. I may not believe in the things I used to believe in, but I know that somewhere, whether it be heaven, or the universe in general, my dad is watching me right now and probably thinking that I should stop crying. He wasn't perfect, but he was and is my father.
After all of this rambling, and the depressing mood of it all, it's probably even more out of place that I could consider myself lucky. I'll tell you why I'm lucky: Because my father loved me every single day that we were together. He and I had more time together in those twelve years than some people spend with their fathers in fifty years. Sure, we had disagreements, and there were times that weren't the best... but I never questioned the fact that he loved me or felt lucky to have me in his life. Obviously, I wish he was still here.. but he instilled in me honor, strength, and courage, all of which have gotten me to this point in my life and will continue to help me through life until I myself die.
So, I guess what I wanted to get across was this... that although I am sad (unbearably so, sometimes), I appreciate my dad and all that he did for me, and I love him more than I could ever possibly express. I was lucky to have had him in my life for the time that I did. Unfortunately the specific memories I have of us together will not always be around... but I will always remember the love and experiences that he gave me. I love you dad, thank you for everything.
In closing, I want to thank my family for being the best and for always supporting me in my mistakes and successes... throughout it all, they've never left my side.
Now do you see why I'm the luckiest girl in the world??
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