The early morning.

Sometimes I find it very sad that I going to bed by 10:30 or 11 on Friday nights and getting up at 8 a.m. or 9 a.m. This used to be a non-existent pattern in my life, as in it never happened. However, college is over and adult life has set in. I now consider 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. regular times to get up, but the idea that they are "early morning" is still drilled into my head.

So as of right now, I have been awake for almost 40 minutes, and I am sitting here enjoying the fresh, full, "awake" feeling of a full breath of air being sucked into my expanding lungs. My bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats was delicious, and I am contentedly sipping a cup of vanilla chai while I debate my first cleaning chore I shall tackle after I shower. Or maybe vice versa, depending on how dirty the chore is.

The day is starting out well. It's on mornings like this that I wish I had the dedication to grab my Bible and read. One of my weakest areas is devotions. I like to think that if I go sit outside and look at the morning nature that is a type of devotion in itself. However, I know that when I stick to that credo I am fooling myself. Even non-Christians can do that, whether they know it or not.

Day's like this make me feel energized and eager to work hard for 4 or 5 hours so I can relax the rest of the day. I know this is something I should thank God for, and should first meditate on His word before doing. I just can never seem to pull myself to do it.

Nick and I both know we are lagging with devotions. We were never brought up with that mindset, that devotions are something you do personally, every day, consistently. Even if we were told this, it doesn't seem like either of our sets of parents practiced it on a regular basis themselves. Like parents, like children.

And so when I sit next to my finished bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and sip from my vanilla chai, I know I am blessed. I am very blessed to have a warm home amidst the crisp, just-arriving fall air of a September morning. I am blessed to have pajamas on covered by a teal fleece jacket my mom bought for me in London. I am also very blessed to be enjoying this food.

However, I also know that I should be blessed to own a Bible, yet I never seem to touch it. I think, despite all my past attempts at keeping a consistent devotional life, that all those little blessings I just mentioned help to keep me on the right track. At least I recognize them as gifts from God, and I am grateful for them. I have actually been more grateful and content (after some struggling here and there) this past year than I possibly have ever been before. And that gives me hope that God is still holding me in His hand.

Maybe this empty bowl and cup of vanilla chai, my pajamas and my jacket, and my comfy apartment with a waiting shower will be the impetus for at least starting devotions again, every day in the early morning.

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The tipsy time.

Yes, I've had a few drinks tonight and maybe that's why I've realized I need to write more. Funny how that works, huh? At least I can type and use correct grammar.

I may as well shoot myself at this point because I always say I should write more and then I never do. It's pointless rambling.

I think I need inspiration, something hard to come by for me in Northwest Iowa.

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The thirtieth post.

This is my thirtieth post. That's right, thirtieth. The big 30th.

Not that that's a big number. I just want to give myself a small pat on the back for actually blogging more than I ever have in the past, even if it is rather sparse and unphilosophical.

I also want to post this blog to give myself not just a pat on the back but a kick in the pants, a reminder to get off my lazy ass sometimes and actually write. Write like I used to, free and without concern as to what other people might think of my thoughts, ideas, stories, and other literary endeavours.

And my ridiculously Anglophilic obsession with British spelling.

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The aching of my heart.

I haven't written in a while. Sadly, it seems like that's what I always say when I start a new post.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those really good writers. You know, the kind who were bi-polar or depressed all the time, because despite their very serious ailments, they wrote some of the most beautiful fiction and non-fiction of all time. Sometimes I realize I could very easily turn into one of these types of writers, and that both deeply satisfies and terrifies me.

When I get upset or angry or depressed, I seem to be attacked by whatever emotion is currently in my system, and then it threatens to take over. Sometimes it does for a little bit. It is one of these moments that currently controls me. At times like this, where I am upset or angry or depressed or all three, I am always about ready to break down into tears, or just head for my laptop and type out something in a blog, just to get the thoughts out of my head.

All these emotions penetrating my mind are what convince me that I'll be a well-respected writer someday. They drive my writing the majority of the time, when I have so much to say that I must get it down on paper or on screen. My mood swings often dictate when or how much I write. And I know, as a writer, re-writing and editing is downright crucial to successful writing, but when emotions are running amuck, no one can deny that you might as well get what you're feeling onto paper before you try to fix it. Then you will feel better and, if you're a good writer, you'll motivate yourself to go back to those crazy ink jots and make them sound at least partially sane and readable.

On the other hand, having such intense mood swings and emotions is dangerous, and I often wonder if this is how the most famous masters of literature started out before spiraling into the abyss of mental disorder. Thoughts like this often make me halt whatever emotions I'm feeling so that I don't go any farther. So I guess as worried as I am about going crazy someday, I have an innate defense already in place against letting myself go too far. Hopefully, this barrier remains in place for the rest of my life.

If it doesn't, I may just end up being the best damn writer of our time. We'll all just have to wait and see.

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