Evergreen

I have always thought of beauty as a flower that is beautiful for a season, and then withers away.
It's like the young girls that you see, with glowing tan skin and long, beautiful hair. They laugh and stars go up in smoke. The power of youth draws lingering eyes nearer their dancing figures. Never while observing this beauty do those who chase it think of the withering that follows.

They will grow old, and little lines and divers will seep into their skin like paths etched into a map.
Some of them will lament the passing of their novelty, they will stand in front of the mirror long after the admiring stares following the swish of their golden hair have passed. In a quiet room, they will stand and count the grey hairs, or the cracks in their skin. It is a lonely sight, but it is not the fate of all.

My grandmother told a story once about her mother, how she was angry with her while he was driving. She was young, and reckless, and wanted her mother's acceptance so badly that she didn't think about the harshness of her own tongue. Her mother, silent and weary drove on in surrender to her daughter. My grandmother, in her slow country drawl, said- "Well, I looked over at her hands and I just started crying because they were so soft and frail. I realized then what foolishness she suffered in me, what she took willingly for love." With a soft look in her eyes, my grandmother would fold her own hands, and there was more beauty there than in any young girl flicking her hair.

So when I see pretty girls, and when I feel pretty, I wonder whether we will have the beauty that lasts inside of us when the rest of our flaunted flower has withered.

I've had a lot of time to think this all over. I must have been eight years old, lying on my bed and wondering whether I would be beautiful when I was a teenager. I decided then that I would rather be kind, hardworking, and strong in spirit. Those things would last if I really started building them. Those things were not perennial. I decided shortly after I realized that young girls bloom into flowers, that we could age into evergreens.

For now, I am but a twig with some branches, among many living green things. Perhaps I am even shorter than some of these stretching buds. There are many trees larger, greener than me. Many flowering trees. Even flowering evergreens. They bloom anew with grace and light and strength each season.

But I have good soil, and I stretch towards the sun each day. I will get there soon.

Thanks for reading,
Kayley Rae

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Growing Old Together

Okay, this quote is uber cheesy and I don’t believe that whoever you’re meant to be with should really treat you like you’re perfect (you’re not), but let’s real talk for a second.

Today I was reading posts from Humans of New York and came across one about an old couple who said they depended on each other more since they grew old:

"We depend on each other more than we used to"

 I started thinking about (for real) how people get pretty gross when they get old. I mean, things start breaking and not working, and sometimes you’re just gonna be unable to help it/pitiful. That’s what happens. So the phrase “I want to grow old with you” took on new meaning for me.

Growing old with someone isn’t about being sweet and drinking juice and sitting in rocking chairs together. I mean- that stuff too, but it’s also about being able to be completely comfortable with one another and depend on one another, in a non-cutesy way. When you grow old, you sort of shed your skin. You’re not gonna look your best or smell your best or anything, so you’d better be comfortable with the person you love seeing you that way, and be comfortable with seeing them that way. You’ll both be imperfect in a lot of ways, so I think it’d be rad to find someone to laugh about it with. That’s what growing old together means to me now. Cool.

Thanks for reading,

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On Being Sensitive

¹sen·si·tive

 adjective \ˈsen(t)-sə-tiv, ˈsen(t)s-təv\

: easily upset by the things that people think or say about you

: likely to cause people to become upset

: aware of and understanding the feelings of other people

I have a lot of thoughts about this one. When I first moved to Oregon, on a camping trip with my close friends, I overheard a conversation a couple of my peers were having:

"Have you ever noticed that Kayley is like, really sensitive?"
"Yeah, she is."
"Like she can't take a joke."

Naturally, being sensitive, I went to the bathroom and cried about it. After my tears were dried and the situation with my friends was rectified, though, I was left with this personality reveal to solve: was I too sensitive?

On the one hand, I think I was. When I first moved to Oregon, I hadn't really been made fun of, and it was really hard for me to get teased, even if it was good-hearted. I distinctly remember one instance when some older friends came over and were quipping about the oily state of my hair (I didn't wash it very regularly- why I persisted in my bad hygiene at the time is beyond me).

When they made their joke, I managed something similar to, "Yeah, I guess you guys will have to come over and show me how!" in response, biting my lip to keep my eyes from watering. Then, when they left, I cried about it.

I remember that being a big humbling experience for me, because I realized that it was only my pride that debilitated me from being okay with being teased. Also it's just embarrassing to have bad hygiene, but you see what I'm getting at.

The next summer, when my brother made fun of me for a considerable acne spot on my forehead, I was able to come back quickly: "You know, I had always planned for the day when someone would tease me about acne- I'm just glad it came from you." Observers were pleased with that response.

My point is, the kind of sensitive where you're too proud to partake in goodhearted teasing is not a good kind.

However, there is another kind of sensitive, illustrated well in the quote below:

"Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even thought the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place." -Iain Thomas

This kind of sensitive is the good kind. The idealistic and dare I say emotional kind of sensitive that encourages empathy and altruism. We need people in this world who are willing to put themselves in other people's shoes. Sensitive people just happen to put themselves in everyone else's shoes, they feel the things that go on around then deeply.

I know that there is a place for those predominately concerned with taking action or coming at problems very logically, but I prefer to be one of the predominately feeling ones, and I don't think that's a bad thing. There is a lot to be gained from carefully considering and taking in the world around you as the sensitive do.

I'm not trying to sound superior- like I said, each kind of person holds their merit. But I think there's a special purpose for the sensitive folk, and they (we) are important. After all, every type of person can fit together to make the world go round.

Here's another quote relating to this topic, focused on women specifically, and the common accusation that we are too emotional.

So there you have it- be empathetic, hey be easily hurt if that's how you are, but be able to recognize the difference between goodhearted teasing and ill-willed mocking. That's what I've figured out about being a sensitive person so far!

Thank you for reading!

PS: I began writing this post way earlier than now, I have a lot of drafts in my blog that I just haven't finished and will get to. I just finished this one and it's now 3 AM so I bid you adieu and goodnight!

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Pink Trees

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1

In 2012, my family of seven moved from our beautiful California home to Oregon, in a caravan of 3 white vehicles and one standard-sized RV. We had already been considering moving to Oregon, and once my dad lost his job in California, we decided that it was time. We didn't have a home to move to, so the plan was to stay in our RV until my dad could find a job in Oregon. We thought it might be two months at the most before he found a job.

On the way up to Oregon, we stopped off at my cousins' beautiful vineyard in Sonoma. They had a mahogany-filled library, a separate guest house, and a room with a view of the golden gate bridge that my sister and I stayed in. They were truly graceful hosts, and the whole experience was a welcomed rest stop in the upheaval our lives were in. While there we laughed together, ate good food, and played music; and through it all, I understood that everything would be okay in the end. Even if my family's situation was unsure, I had faith that one day we'd be settled into a home, making joyous music to warm our own walls, once more.

We arrived at our Oregon destination before long: a little RV park in the small town of Coburg. I began to regularly take bike rides into the quiet neighborhood, or through the rows of RV's, simply to avoid the restlessness that accompanies RV living.

In the late winter, when we first arrived, the wind and rain beat against the RV's paneling and shook the vehicle itself. In the top bunk, I hated the sound of the rain that rustled my sleep every night, and I hated the cold of the top bunk. Around this time, my oldest sister became engaged to a wonderful young man who I somewhat despised at the time simply for taking her away. I hated that, too. I am incredibly territorial over my family and I knew that it would be a great loss, the depth of which I couldn't deny. 

My life in California had been fairly predictable: there was always sun, my huge family, our big backyard, and Miguel's Jr. on the weekends. Everything was changing, and having young teenage eyes to view everything through, the change was monumental.

However, there was always that glimmering hope. When we first got to Oregon, we were greeted with rows of pink trees in the pasture flanking the RV park, and in the park itself. Among all of the cracked asphalt and grey sky, these bright little trees greeted us. I immediately decided when I saw those trees that everything would be okay. They felt like some sort of a promise.

Time passed, summer came and the blossoms on those trees fell, and my sister's wedding approached. Once the Autumn hit, it was back to the rocking, raining weather that I was familiar with. In the midst of the storms, I would close my eyes and try to fall asleep, imagining better days.

I had two distinct places I would go to:

One was my imaginary perfect room. Book cases lined the walls, and it was all white and flowing, with soft blue accents. It also had a window seat- (very important.)

The other imagination I began to have was of my sister's wedding. I eventually realized that the man she loved was worthy of her, and I began to look forward to their union, and... would you believe it? I was happy for them. I imagined every detail of that wedding, it was a good place for me to go to when our situation felt a little hopeless.

Now I know that it wasn't just the harsh weather that I coped with that year. I lost my sister to her marriage, my family dynamic changed once we left the RV- both of my oldest siblings flew the coop at the same time.  I lost the lifelong friends I had in California, and everything that I had imagined my life would be there. And yet, one more imagination helped pull me through.

I would imagine California as a place, our household, all in this cinematic golden fog that represented its metaphorical nature. Directly adjacent to our home was the RV, it was literally a hallway in my imagination, and practically a hallway in reality. On the other side of the RV was the unknown, but I knew that our time in the RV was a travelling point, a journey to another side. That's how I think of every trial I go through now, it's just a travelling point, a way to propel me directly into the future of the blissful unknown, and in the hallway I always have with me the wonderful substance of hope.

*I've decided: instead of just putting definitions of words at the beginning of my posts, I'll switch it up and have quotes, too.

Thanks for reading!

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Being an Outsider

out·sid·er

ˌoutˈsīdər/

noun

1.

a person who does not belong to a particular group.

Being on the outside for a while is good for anyone. An observer with valuable insight is the direct product of ostracization, alienation, criticism, and the such-like. Take my older brother, for example. When he was a kid, he was sheltered and extremely intelligent. He would occasionally hang out with the neighborhood boys, running up and down the street with them. It wasn't until those boys started discovering cool in the 7th grade that my brother came home with a bloody nose and we found out what had been going on with him: he was being bullied. He never talks about it, and why would he? He never really did. I don’t pretend to know why, but I do know what I saw it work in him: a brief emo stage and an emergence of careful intellect and insight. He is intuitive of people’s natures. He has not only witnessed, but experienced many angles of humankind, and he’s come out of it with an understanding of the way that we work. His utmost pleasure has always been to make people tick, and that would continue to lead him into compromising situations, but I think that he’s learned to be quieter in a sense. He’s still crazy, but he observes, he understands. Perhaps some would call this growing up, but I think it’s a partial result of having seen several sides of the world. I think that to an extent, being an outsider for a while is good for people.

Think about it: if you are liked constantly, then you will not find the time or necessity to sit back and look at the way people act and why. Being on the outside produces unique perspectives. The resulting determination to understand why you are disliked or unequal to your peer group produces a introspective nature to be prized.

I myself was never insatiably disliked, I have never been shown any great ill-will or malice. In reality, I was always given the chance to be liked. However, I had a weird pride complex and a huge fear of being disliked, so I walled myself up and did all of the ostracizing on my own. I was an observer by nature, and socially anxious. I found it necessary to understand why people were the way they were, so that I could navigate through life. Having been home schooled and shy, my peers scared me and teenagers frightened me to my core. I was a pretentious child and believed that I ought to be on the top tier, but I had to figure out how. So, I watched and listened, and tried not to be embarrassed in the process.

Although now I understand that being contemptuous of other human beings because you feel threatened by them is a terrible way to live, at some points I learned valuable lessons simply by watching, and by empathizing with any underdog in any situation I was placed in, because I felt like we were on the same level. I think I was probably more of a background character in reality, but I developed a nature of observation and an intuition that is crucial to understanding and empathizing. This sort of understanding tenderness, the ability to say “I've been there,” is a really lovely result of being an outsider.

Thanks for reading!

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Kayley Rae: A Prologue

pro·logue

ˈprōˌlôg,-ˌläg/

noun

1. a separate introductory section of a literary or musical work.

   "this idea is outlined in the prologue"

I love words; if you look in my Google search history, you will see many a "define:(word)" search housed there. With this in mind, I think it's incredibly appropriate that I begin each blog post with a relevant definition. Witty, no? Probably not, but it makes me happy, so I'm keeping it.

My love of words and writing in general is actually the reason that I created this blog. I am a wide-eyed aspiring writer with only a few rejection letters under my belt and a lot of unpublished drafts in google docs. This means that I'm probably definitely going to become a successful novelist one day.... right?

Rejection is actually an interesting topic to me, because in deciding that I'd like to put my writing out there, I am willingly subjecting myself to rejection and criticism. Criticism is easier to handle than flat-out rejection, it leaves room for improvement. Since I am about to graduate high school, I am on the precipice of a new point in my life where I can spread my wings and see if my writing takes flight. At the beginning of this year, I took my first baby bird step into the writing world when I sent this article about my experiences with anxiety in to HelloGiggles. I was elated at the purely positive response that my writing received, and it gave me the hope that-forgive the cheesy metaphor- one day my writing could take flight.

However, a tiny bit of what could be construed as success has not given me the enduring confidence that I expected it to. The day that I realized that my scrappy 12-year-old poems about Autumn where I rhymed "Fall" with "At all" weren't really profound, I began to question my creative worth. Rejection weighs much heavier on me now that I hope to make a career out of the same mind that thought up those scrappy poems in the 6th grade.

Despite all of this anxiety over my untested skills, the ray of sunshiny hope that comes shimmering back to me every time that I become discouraged is this: Whether people love my writing or hate it, I will always love to write. I know this from the depths of me, and I shouldn't be thinking about impressing people anyways, that's a foul goal to have. I will instead craft my writing in hope of delivering a bit of sunshine to a person's gloom, a laugh to a person's frown, or a thought to a troubled mind. This is the purest and most wonderful type of writing: the kind of simple writing that inspires connectivity. That's my blog's manifesto, I hope that I shall stick to it!

If you'd like to know about me, you can go to my About Me page.

Thanks for reading!

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