Monday...

So, update.

Portland and Seattle are out--Seattle because it is really expensive and Portland because it apparently has the highest rate of sex trafficking (per my mother's knowledge). Quite frankly, I just want to go summer where the summers aren't so stinking hot and uncomfortable. And if the place has a large scope for the imagination, all the better, really. 
Furthermore, though I love being surrounded by so many members of my church the pressure to either be married or go on a mission is getting stiflingly unbearable. My father continues to tell me not to worry about marriage but it is a little difficult when everywhere you go there are wedding announcements and Bridal Magazines for the perusal. It will be nice to breathe some fresh air where people aren't so concerned about my marital status or whether I am worthy to serve the Lord. 

Moving onward--this week will be my first full week of work for both jobs. I am most grateful that my second shift, custodial, is so mindless but at the same time it gives me a lot of quiet time, thinking to myself. Now that some developments in my life have gone kaput, hopefully I will be able to turn this thinking to something useful. Perhaps I should carry a notepad and pen in my back pocket and think up ideas for novels? 
The ride home is incredibly thrilling though, I must say. After clearing campus, there is a hill that I ride my bike down and, when timed correctly, I have a green light at the one stoplight and I pretty much roll all the way to the courtyard of my apartment complex. Makes for a quick and easy journey after what will start to seem like rather long days at work. 
So, I think I mentioned this, but I bruised my ankle playing badminton a couple weeks ago now and I think the swelling is finally going down. Why? Oh, I might have actually taken time after work the last couple days to elevate and ice it. It is still definitely bruised (which I discover quite frequently at my custodial job, where I have accumulated more bruises on my legs than I care to count) but at least it doesn't inhibit my work. 

I am thinking about weeding out some of my possessions--especially those of a clothing and accessory nature. I mean, let's face it, I really don't use half of what I have and I am pretty sure it is the pack rat mentality that keeps me saying, "But what if that's exactly what I need for this specific occasion?" Yeah. Another thing. I don't go to such occasions as would permit me to keep such belongings on the shelf. Really.
 I should probably also start systematically using my lotion. Somehow I have ended up with quite a few bottles of different smells, brands and such and it would make it a lot easier to move if I didn't have so much of one product, quite frankly. I think I will also have a bubble blowing party here pretty soon seeing as I have found myself in possession of three bottles of bubbles (I promise I didn't use any of my own money to purchase them). 
I think the one spot in my clothing selection that I actually use each item equally are my shoes. I guess it helps that I have church every week and thus have use for the different heels that I find myself to be in possession of. 
I could be a pretty classy dresser if work was a closer distance and I didn't finish off the night with custodial work. It is a crying shame, really. 

So, yes. This post has just been a lot of rambling on my part but there are simply times where one must ramble or give in to the stresses of the every day life that comes to pass because one is female. 
And although I cannot host it, I definitely want to suggest a girls-night-in where we watch some real tearjerker of a chick flick. Purge the tear ducts, you know? I think it is healthy to cry now and again but I am a firm believer that one shouldn't cry for the same reason three times in one week. So if one doesn't have tears left, one won't cry, right? Haha!
Such is the reasoning of Cassidy Ward. 

Happy Monday! 

Life: Take 2

A couple weeks ago now, I had the opportunity to return to the motherland of Oregon to visit with my family. We celebrated my younger sister (the next in line) graduate from high school and had all around good family bonding time--even to a badminton game gone wrong when, choosing not to wear shoes whilst playing in the backyard, I stepped in a pot hole an bruised my ankle... it is still a little swollen and bruised but I blame myself for not taking the time to properly ice it every day since. Alas...
Anyway, while at home I had the chance to talk with my older brother into the wee hours of the morning... and I mean it when I say wee. By 3 AM, we finally came to this thought: why am I, Cassidy, even going to college?
Okay, okay, yes. It is a good idea to go to college and I am not saying it isn't for anyone. However, who ever said it was for EVERYone?
Quite frankly, high school was a cake walk for me. Rarely had to study and when I did seriously study it was because I loved the subject (such as my Art History class in my Senior year). However, I did as my mom always said I would--take on high school to prepare to go to college so that when the time comes, I wouldn't have too much trouble getting into the school of my choosing. How did that translate in my maturing brain? You will go to college... no matter what. 
And so I did.
Quite happily at first. Not only was I accepted in my first choice, Brigham Young University-Provo but also my second choice, Brigham Young University-Idaho. All was looking up. But, I didn't apply myself as well as I should have while applying for scholarships and ended up with barely enough scholarship to get me through my first semester and only enough for my books for the second semester. I am not entirely sure where I thought all the money was coming from to do those things I needed (and thought I needed) to do, but by the end of my second semester, I was greatly indebted to my parents. 
Thus, my plans to continue on in Provo were brought to a rather abrupt end when my coming home to attend my brother's wedding equated coming home to stay, once again, under the roof of my parents to work until I paid them off and then until I had enough in the bank to take another stab at school.
A year and a half passed, and with what I thought was a full-proof plan, I launched myself back into the Provo scene to tackle the university monster once more. Well. College was hard just as it had been that first semester when I had done average or below in most of my classes (only getting A's in my dance classes... go figure). As such, schooling slowed down to a crawl when I signed up for only a credit or two at a time suddenly realizing I had no idea what I was doing.
About 2.5 years too late, don't you think?
My passion, of course, lay in the performing arts but really how reliable is that? So, I started thinking up a different and more stable path. Teaching... music, of course. I thought that scheme up about a year ago. Nope. Still not even started. 
So, here I am. Fighting my way through being on Academic Warning and (just recently) starting to work two part time jobs and I am feeling discouraged (just as my mother had predicted I would...although it is still summertime so at least I'm not under house arrest due to snowy weather). 
The clearest way I could describe to my brother as we talked things out was this: I feel like I am banging my head against a wall trying to accomplish those things (like a college education) I thought my parents needed me to in order to feel proud of their oldest daughter.
And this brings us back to my mother's theory on high school: take the classes to prepare as if you were going to college and (these are my own words at the end) so it can be an option. 

Wow. Can I get a round of applause?

  As we continued talking, a well-known poem came to mind and though I am sure some of you have already thought of it, here it is in full.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

"Yet knowing how way lead on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back." In all honesty, until just now, I have not really thought about that part of the poem. But I see the truth in it. Here I stand at the fork in my yellow wood and wonder, which path will I take?

So often we think that we are taking the road "less traveled by" when we are simply doing the same as everyone else.

Now, before all of you think I will do something batty and just pack a suitcase of the bare minimum and run off to Europe or Hawaii, I realize that though it is a decision of paths, it will also entail some careful thought and planning.

It becomes increasingly evident that once out of the Provo bubble, housing will be different and I may end up either living with people with very different values than myself or simply living on my own but... I do not see this as a completely bad thing. I am halfway through my 22nd year, single and completely independent. 

As for prospective cities, I have a few in mind and simply need to figure out which one would be the best fit for me (and I assure you, there will be a lot of prayer and faith involved in this process) and my focus for the next year and half (this is my projected time frame) I will be working and saving. I have already cut back the classes I will be taking in the fall (having to take at least one credit to keep my job on campus which actually pays a good deal above minimum wage so it would be a rather imbecile move to lose it) and when my next paycheck comes I will, as my brother put it, pay myself (after the usual 10% to tithing) and also try to continue living on just one paycheck so the other can by squirreled away (my own wording) for the time ahead. 

So here is the question:

Should I aim for Seattle, Portland, Denver or Buena Vista (that's in Virginia, if you were unaware)?

Hearts

Can I pose a question?

What is it that compels us to allow one another into our hearts? At the beginning of every meeting of the human spirit we are given two choices: either we are going to let someone see our hearts (even if only a piece of it) or what we show them will simply be farce. 
I know I am not the only one who has put their heart out there into the open and prayed to God it would not be trampled on. But I suppose that is one of the ways in which we grow. We build our hearts with the pieces found in these little boxes labeled with our names, given to us from God. 
Of course, as children, at first we put the least amount together possible, our hearts and desires being simple. But as time goes on, our hearts break and we have to fix them, each time growing bigger and, hopefully, more beautiful.
But why do they need to be broken?
Why can't we just assess our hearts as we grow and think, "You know? I think I could do better." Then, with that thought, we carefully take them apart, gentle as can be, rearrange and then present our "better" to the world. 
Maybe it is because we would miss the intimacy which spurs wisdom into which pieces we lay our hands upon next. 
A few days ago, I had the experience to be with the Sun. It was beautiful, bright and everything seemed so clear. But as the night fell and the Sun was setting, I felt tears in my eyes as I tried to behold its last disappearing rays. The Sun reached one of the last shining tendrils and wiped away the tear in the corner and how my heart did rise even while being cracked just a little. Bittersweet was the moment, we realized and soon the mountain obscured him and I was left to the darkness. 
Of course, as suns are apt to do, the Sun rose once more but obscured in the clouds of distance. Now, I am not one to completely turn down the shade or even a little rain cloud but my heart ached for the Sun's warmth and so I shouted to it with every fiber of my being. I didn't want one ounce of my feeling to go unnoticed but, although the Sun expressed tenderness toward me, it would not come back and in some instances felt as though it were becoming even more distant.
As the Sun began to set once more, I couldn't stifle myself any longer for fear that if I didn't let my heart be known that I should implode like a dying star, turning into something that would continuously draw light and life into it without being able to feel the warmth ever again. 
The Sun blinded me with its fierce truth and I realized then, the Sun was not mine to keep--nor should I have ever been under the impression that I could hold it to myself. 

And so, I realize I have done what I have done now countless times before. I allowed someone into my heart, gave them a measure of my intimacy and care, concern and--dare I say it-- hope, and find myself dashed against the rocks under the salty tears of an ocean. 
Now, I must open up that little box (I imagine it to be made of porcelain, a music box of sorts, that plays a melancholy but no less lovely song) that reads "Cassidy" and sift through the pieces that I have yet to find a place for in the heart I have composed--for it must needs be composed like a song rather than built like a building. 

"For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads."

Doctrine and Covenants 25:12

So here is to those who allow those we come in contact with into our hearts, giving them the very tools with which we compose and construct our hearts so that they may break them down and give back to us that we may try again, to face our burning Suns and rest in the Moons of our time.