Rejection sucks. We’re not going to dance around that. It ain’t pretty people. It is downright ugly and makes you feel downright bummed and leaves you downright wondering “what’s wrong with me?” And I wish I could tell you all that it gets better. That you experience rejection less the older you get, but really, that’s just not true. It’s a part of life. It’s going to happen. You’re not going to get into the college you want. You’re not going to get the house. You’re not going to get the new job. You’re not going to get the guy or girl. Sounds bleak. Sounds dismal. Sounds hopeless. But it’s not. Really. Rejection is a part of life and I’m here to tell you that it isn’t so bleak. It isn’t so dismal. Yes, it is painful. Oh man does it hurt and I won’t spare you that commiseration. But, in the middle of all that pain and confusion and dejectedness, there’s actually hope. Smack dap in the middle of your gut-wrenching, heart-pounding rejection there is hope and joy and peace that will make your head explode. I know, because I’ve experienced rejection. A lot.
My Mother taught me that people will always talk about you behind your back and there’s nothing you can do about it. Good things will be said about you. True things will be said about you. Bad things will be said about you. Lies will be said about you. So I’ve operated in life with this awareness. People talk about other people. It’s just how it is. I know people need to air out their grievances. I know I can be a little unbearable sometimes. I’m sure I make people mad, or annoy them, or hurt them. I’m okay with people expressing their feelings when I’ve done something wrong to them. Sometimes we just need to vent, get something off our chest in order to move forward. I’ve come to accept this. I cannot control what other people say about me, or how other people perceive me. I can only account for myself. Yet it still hurts when you find out what people are really saying about you. What they really think about you.
My church is currently going through Hebrews. Our series is titled Jesus is Better. People have been asked to share their Jesus is Better stories. This is mine. You can view the original post here or listen to it here (dated 11/26). Yeah. I had to do it front of people. Yikes.
Growing up, I was aware that I wasn’t whole and complete that there was this void inside of me. It was a big thing to realize at a young age, but I wanted to fill it. So I started seeking out love, thinking that it was going to be the thing that would satisfy me. I thought the love from my parents would fill me, but when it didn’t I would turn around and seek out love from my friends. Then when that failed as well, I would look for it in guys. Then that love would fail too and soon I found myself compromising my relationships more and more, trying to get as much love as I could. Even though it never filled me the way that I wanted it to, I kept trying because I thought that people would make me whole and complete. Continue reading “Jesus is Better than…”
A friend of mine asked me what my dreams in life were. I stuttered. I stumbled. I freaked out. I gave them an answer that wasn’t really what I wanted to say. Maybe it was the nature of the conversation, the heaviness of such a loaded question. Maybe if they had asked the 20 year old Lizzy, still in college, fresh, flowering, a bright gleam in her eye, then they would have gotten the answer that gets you right in your gut, the kind that stirs you full of passion. I must have stopped dreaming because the mid-twenty something Lizzy’s answer kind of sucked. I’ve forgotten to dream. Oh sure I have bucket list dreams, get my novel published, see every national park, live in another state, but the entirety of my life has just become one big whatever and I don’t know when that happened.
This series is a documentation of my journey into a life of minimalism. The highs, the lows, the wins, and losses of minimizing the amount of stuff in my life.If you’re just jumping into this series, may I suggest you check out my previous post first.
Just before Christmas, a good friend of mine came by to borrow a dress to wear to a party. I pulled out all I had to offer and let her take her pick. She walked away with three. She just kept thanking me and I told her it was my pleasure, and, really, lending out a dress was not that big a deal on my generosity scale. I remember being glad to see them getting worn.
My friend left, but that thought didn’t leave my mind. It hung around and rolled about in my head as I stuffed the rest of my dresses back in my closet. I looked at the remaining dresses hanging there and then down the line at all my clothes. Knowing that most of this stuff rarely got worn by me kind of made me sick. Had I just been hanging onto articles of clothing so that others could wear it instead of me? When had I become some strange clothing lender, doling out dresses to those in need? I should have opened a business and started charging. Continue reading “Minimize me: A Former Hoarder’s Journey into a Life of Minimalism- Part one: The Purge”
My current mantra in life is this: Be
Be still. Be quiet. Be focused. Be responsive. Be chill.
When I was in grade school, I attended this after school program. Kids’ Club. The program was run by Pat and her husband Smitty. They’re both long dead I’m sure since they were like a bajillion years old when I was only seven (this is relevant, track with me here, I’m painting you a picture). Pat scared me. But Smitty, Smitty was a cool old man. He had faded and wrinkling Navy tattoos that you could see peeking out from underneath his rolled up sleeves. He did card tricks and played pass the pigs. Smitty was magical. He drew you in. Mesmerized you. Every kid that was forced to stay that late after school was obsessed with him.
Now, you knew you were in with Smitty if he gave you a nickname. Who was I? Busy Lizzy. No joke. But it gets punier people. Smitty could draw. A class act doodler. And along with every cleverly coined nickname, you would receive a penciled rendition of yourself. And I was rightfully depicted as a bumble bee, buzzing around a hive. I still bother my mom about that picture. She says it’s in a box somewhere. Mother, take this as another reminder. I want that doodle. Continue reading “B, as in Be, not Bee.”
I think minimalism is Biblical. I’m no minimalist. I want to change that.
I am a things gal. I like stuff. I find beauty in the creation and craft of a good pair of jeans, so much that I end up owning 5 pairs. Necessary? Not in the slightest. My closet is stuffed. Well, it was, but we’ll get to that. I am the girl with the expansive clothing collection that my friends come to in need. You’re going to a wedding and want something new to wear? I’ve got like 20 options for you. And you’re looking for a unique nail polish color to go with said dress I just lent you? Come to my cupboard of makeup and take your pick from my overwhelming collection of every-shade-of-the-rainbow nail polishes. Oh and you’ll probably want matching heels to go with that, maybe a bag while we’re at it too.
Well not anymore. I’m done. Sorry ladies. I quit. My services will no longer be available to you. My lending closet is closed. Permanently. Here’s why: Continue reading “Minimize Me: A Former Hoarder’s Journey into a Life of Minimalism”
My Mom told me to start this blog, so I did. But believe me, I don’t do everything my mother tells me. If I did, then I’d have three less tattoos and I would have a lot less heartache to gripe about. Such is life.
To be truthful, I shot my mom down pretty quick when she brought up the idea. I wasn’t sure if this was going to be a good idea. Tons of people have blogs. People that shouldn’t have blogs have blogs. Even cats have blogs. I didn’t want to become another blogger in the ever growing blogger-sphere, where trollers run wild and unchecked and emotional tact is somehow lost in the foggy web of the internet (if you’ve ever posted an ambiguous social status to elicit attention, you know what I mean).
Yet here I am. Let the irony ensue. Continue reading “To Blog or Not To Blog”