tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77086374855202709012024-03-13T15:43:44.178-04:00Ugly TruthsTiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-61478247201256447532013-10-20T00:14:00.000-04:002013-10-20T00:14:24.718-04:00Paint Her Pretty<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">**I was reminded of this blog this week by a co-worker and have taken some time to look back and remember where I was in my head in and in my heart 2+ years ago and I found this unpublished draft written on 10/19/09 -- exactly 4 years ago -- and thought the coincidence alone made it worth publishing! More, what I know now that I wasn't sure of 4 years ago, is that <b>brokenness is beautiful</b>.**</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><i>---</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My life, for the past several years, has been a constant striving. A struggle to be more of this and less of that. A battle against feeling that I am both not enough and too much.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I vividly remember the moment I was told a few years ago by someone who, in the grand scheme of things proves insignificant, that I wasn't easy to love. Or, that's what I heard, which is as real to me as the actual words that were spoken. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was in a Sears parking lot, I was standing against my car a foot away from a person I admired, respected and wanted to be just like. Her words were simple and quick, her face expressionless. And i remember the way that moment sucked the life out of me, the way I assumed at first that she was joking, until silence settled the truth, my hands covering the pain I couldn't hide on my face. It was quick, with lasting impact. And I drove the five minutes home, blinded by my tears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The stinging power of those words (or the perception that overshadowed them) forced me, the truest me, to retreat. I began painting a picture of myself that I thought less complicated, more acceptable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> One day last week, I was made aware that I am seen; that this picture I've created of myself, though I was unaware, is transparent. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While that moment was startling, it granted a freedom: To just be. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What this means in this delicate season of my life, is that the "letting go" that I wrote of before, and struggled to define, is that simple. Just be, knowing that I am at times both, not enough and too much. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm choosing to trust though, that the same beauty and honesty that I see in brokenness, will be seen in me. </span><br />
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Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-16692487806139281862011-08-07T16:36:00.001-04:002011-08-07T16:59:49.615-04:00On The Power Of Intention<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was nearly two years ago when I sat in a D.C. hotel lobby with a handful of my dearest childhood friends. We sat chatting, laughing and reminiscing. But one among us, my cousin Damon, was future focused. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the next couple of years, I’m ready to find my “good thing”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7708637485520270901#_ftn1" name="_ftnref" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a>, he told us, more seriously than normal. I rolled my eyes thinking to myself: “It’s not that easy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Within the past two years, he’s done exactly what he said he would. Yesterday, in the company of those same friends, he married his “good thing”, and my beautiful new cousin, Kristin, as we witnessed a sweet, outdoor ceremony in Marion, Indiana.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was reminded of that moment a few weeks ago as the excitement for their upcoming nuptials bubbled over onto their Facebook pages.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> For me, there was a lesson to be learned here. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am quite intrigued by the power of intention. I find it similar to prayer; a public expression of hope and faith. And this is why so many of us shy away, keeping our intentions and hopes to ourselves. Because what if it doesn’t work? What if we fail? Then we’re left to face the embarrassment of public failure. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, what if it does? What if we dare to tell the world that we’re reaching with all our might toward something we may never grab hold of? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve just started reading Eat. Pray. Love. I’m late, I know. I tend to rebel a bit against overly popular things as such, but after falling in love with the movie, I decided to pick up the book at last. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t want to spoil the story for those of you who haven’t read it, because you should. But in the midst of a nasty divorce, Liz decides to petition God to see its end. She writes out a prayer, or statement of intent, if you will, explaining to God just why her divorce should end quickly. She signs it, and begins to call out the names of her friends and family that she believes would sign it on her behalf. After an hour of calling out names from her parents to Ghandi, she falls asleep. She awakens to her ringing cell phone, on the other end is her lawyer telling her that her husband has just signed the divorce papers that he’d refused for the past several months. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Was it coincidence, or is it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>easy? I guess that is something that can only by tested by your own statements of intent. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This passage pierced right through me because Liz’s petition to God, though she was unaware, is scripturally sound<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7708637485520270901#_ftn2" name="_ftnref" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a> and something I was taught to do in my early and eager years as a young Christian. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It seems, though, that Liz and my cousin Damon, may have tapped into a universal law and moved beyond the silencing fear of the many “what if’s” and entertained just one. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What if it works? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So wherever and whenever this blog post finds you, may you raise your glasses, for the newlyweds and for you my friends: To the power of intention. </div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7708637485520270901#_ftnref" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> “He who finds a wife finds what is good and receives favor from the Lord.” Proverbs 18:22, NIV</div></div><div id="ftn" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7708637485520270901#_ftnref" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a> Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” Phillipians 4:6, NIV </div></div></div><br />
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><div id="ftn" style="mso-element: footnote;"></div></div></span>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-64146000364191491732011-07-10T22:41:00.002-04:002011-07-11T07:12:24.201-04:00The Act Of Creating<div class="MsoNormal">I’m surrounded by creators. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s been true for several years now, but only recently, after a few years of writing in public have I found the confidence to count myself among them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had a moment of clarity just a few weeks ago after an evening spent with my cousin Damon and dear friend Shayna. It was well past midnight as we sat in Damon’s home studio, sipping coffee and eating cookies while listening to a sneak peek of<a href="http://www.damongolden.com/"> Damon’s new mixtape. </a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We bobbed our heads to the beat, threw ideas around and talked about our inspirations. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once the coffee was gone, we’d eaten too many cookies and heard several of the new tracks, it was time to go. But I didn’t want it to end. I was inspired, uplifted and excited. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Their creative energy feeds my own. I need to write like Damon needs to make music and Shayna needs to get lost in a character. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“All of my closest friends are creators,” I said to Shayna as we drove off into the night. “And so are you,” she answered. “Like souls attract like souls.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And yet, for the past few months, I’ve been stuck. I’ve found myself consuming more than I’m creating and feeling overwhelmed by the pressure to write something better than my Invictus piece, in order to prove that I’ve grown as a writer. I finished my last story knowing that I need to write, but not quite knowing how. To avoid the sting of failure, I’ve written a little here and there but spent the majority of my free time looking at my options and carefully planning my next steps. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What story will I tell next? Should I venture into fiction? Playwriting? Do I need a MFA degree to further my writing skills? Where will I find new inspiration? How can I build a life around writing? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That night, as I sat around with my friends and fellow creators, a calm washed over me. The answers to my questions were suddenly less important. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The act of creating is what’s important. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next month marks my 1-year anniversary at the PR agency gig. It would be safe to say that the real world has swallowed me up. With frequent early morning events, long days, night meetings and weekends spent trying to get ahead; I’ve struggled to find the time and energy to write. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a choice that made sense in my head, but betrayed my heart, my passion: To take the business route just in case the writing wouldn’t carry me. And I’ve found myself empty and frustrated, filled with the what-ifs and regrets that I’m still young enough to rectify. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been putting my energy into the wrong places. It took being around my friends, who are busy creating, to realize that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I write, opportunities come. When I don’t, I find myself trying to force open closed doors and fretting over logistics. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truth that hit me in the wee hours of the morning was simple: When I’m in the right space, surrounded by the right people, focused on creating, the answers to the questions will come. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The gift will make a way for itself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">P.S. Soon, I'll be revamping www.tiffanyholbert.com and making that the new home for my musings, so go ahead and drop that link into your Google Reader :) </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-77397946902183115442011-01-17T22:45:00.000-05:002011-01-17T22:45:16.541-05:00Letter #4: Letter To Your Siblings<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Dear Riana & Langston,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve tried and tried to think back to our most memorable times together. There are but two that I can remember tangibly. They don’t include the awfulness of the fire or the divorce. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first predates those markers in our history. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was our ritual in the old house to have our own little party when Mom and Dad went out with friends on a weekend night. Already in our pj’s, we’d say our goodbyes and wait just until the garage door had closed behind them to assume our respective positions in the den. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Riana, you were <u>always</u> the DJ, the only one allowed to touch Dad’s stereo and the stacks and stacks of albums we had in the house. Each of us manned with our own makeshift microphone, we’d sing and dance for hours with breaks only for Pizza Rolls and Hawaiian Punch. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You guys died laughing when I made my own dance, “The Boo-Boo Dance”, as you call it. It was the only one I did in our line up for years. Untill you guys taught me the butterfly, that is. Together we marveled at the brilliance of Michael & Janet, tried to pull of the Boyz II Men harmonies, and screamed at the top of our lungs to Whitney Houston classics. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We spent every minute of the two or three hours that Mom and Dad were gone in that den together. Singing, dancing and laughing our heads off. Those songs hold our memories, I’ll never forget how good those times were. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The second came after the fire, the divorce, my beautiful neice and nephew and all of our moves to and back from Florida. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lang, I loved that you chose your sisters to be your guest at Jay-Z’s Blueprint III concert in Indy this past summer. It had been so long since we all spent time together, which is probably why we spent a ridiculous amount of time posing for pre-concert pics, (one of which is <i>still</i> my Facebook profile picture). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll never forget how you grabbed our hands and pulled us through the overly-crowded downtown streets, sure that we’d all make it together. And then there was the look on your face when Jay-Z, who I’d listened to you imitate for years, took the stage. “That’s Jay-Z,” you said with childlike wonder. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Together, we danced and sang along for hours, just like the good ole’ days. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We dubbed ourselves “The Bratpack” that night, and I can’t wait for our next adventure. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let’s do it big. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Love you both, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tiff</div><!--EndFragment-->Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-74513596628948792262011-01-16T00:35:00.001-05:002011-01-16T01:48:44.143-05:00Day #3: Letter To Your Parents<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">If I'm honest, there is only a small window of time in my childhood where I saw you two as a unit. I learned too early that you were two separate people, with two separate lives. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For as long as I can remember, I have loved you in different languages. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dad, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember all too vividly my first few weeks at my new high school in Florida. I shrank in your absence. It was then that I realized just how much influence you had in shaping my self-esteem and building my confidence. I had always been your little girl. Mom <u>still </u>tells the story of how you wouldn’t let anyone hold me as a baby. There were no special exceptions for family or close friends. “You can look at her from right there,” is what she says you’d say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I grew, I became your buddy. You took me everywhere. Believe or not, I was so proud to be known as Mr. Holbert’s daughter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But here, all of this was null and void. I wasn’t anyone’s little girl. Here, I was on my own. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I missed you more than words, matter of fact I only spoke when spoken to. I’d never known so much uncertainty and instability. Our new relationship consisted of Sunday evening phone calls and summer visits. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My first summer back home you arranged for me to have my wisdom teeth taken out. You took such good care of me. I didn’t even know you knew how. Mom was always the one I cried for when I was sick. I guess we both learned something new that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love the carefree spirit that returned to me as soon as I was back home. All I had to worry about was what my friends and I were doing later that night. I had no doubt that you’d take care of everything else. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Six years later, after enduring the biggest heartbreak of my young adult life, I came back home indefinitely. To be taken care of. To heal. While you were unaware of the circumstances that brought me home, you made me smile and laugh, just like you always had. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You would leave a box of my favorite candy with a smiley face drawn on the front. We spent weekends going on bike rides, watching too many movies and eating chili dogs from Gene’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you for loving me and letting me be a kid. I know that letting go isn’t easy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Love, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tiff </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mom, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We never bonded more than the years of just you and I living in the sunshine together. I couldn’t fathom up and leaving you when it was time for me to go to college. Thankfully, USF was right down the street. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We took care of each other. Every night after classes and coaching, you’d find me sleeping on the couch with unfinished homework on my lap. You nagged me to sleep and save my homework for the morning. I nagged you to eat something other than just a bowl of cereal before bed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We enjoyed the beach on the weekends and extravagant lunches after church on Sundays. After all, it was just the two of us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, we’ve had a rocky relationship as mothers and daughters often do. You got the brunt of my anger and pain once it finally surfaced--because you were there. I can only thank you for enduring that, and forgiving me once I finally came to my senses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I decided to leave the nest, I broke your heart. I’m sorry. I’ve become all to familiar with the loneliness you must have felt with too many hours to fill each day and no one to share your time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But you came through it. I’m incredibly proud of your strength and resilience as a woman. If you came through it, I will too. I am my mother’s daughter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve found myself needing you now more than ever. I call just to be comforted by your voice, to ask why my coffee is never as perfect as yours, or what color Maalox to buy when I’ve got an upset stomach. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Your visits are too few and far between. I never want you to leave. I’m looking forward to my visit in June. You’ll spoil me like you always do, and I’ll let you because I miss you like crazy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Love, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Your baby</div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-77888939389717848692011-01-15T12:01:00.000-05:002011-01-15T12:01:27.307-05:00Letter #2: Letter To Your CrushDear Jackson,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The first time I saw <a href="http://www.greysgabble.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/11.jpg">you</a> I was just waking from a nap that lasted a little too long. My eyes fell upon your face, that beautiful face, and I couldn't help but stare. You were gone after a few short minutes, leaving me wondering who you were and when I'd have the chance to see you again.<br />
<br />
I never napped again on a Thursday night, instead I restlessly hoped for your return. Much to my delight, you stood before me once again. I grew to anticipate seeing your face on Thursday nights along with the others. It became my ritual to watch you quietly, hanging on your every word.<br />
<br />
I've always had a thing for guys like you. I just can't shake it, and trust me I've tried. You're hard working, kind-hearted, charming and oh-so-gorgeous. What's not to love?<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure I'm not your type, I'd peg you as a tall, skinny blonde-loving kind of guy. I am certainly not that girl, but I'm also pretty sure you'd love me.<br />
<br />
What do you say, let's see more of each other?<br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
<br />
TiffanyTiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-70417700892819585762011-01-13T22:49:00.001-05:002011-01-13T23:08:39.861-05:00Letter #1: A Letter to Your Best Friend<div style="background-color: transparent; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Shayna, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve only carried only a few true friends with me into adulthood, but you were the first and for that you hold a special place in my heart. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I remember the first day I saw you. You were sandwiched between your parents on the pulpit at Sherman Street. Before the end of their set, you picked up the microphone and sang “I Am”. I wanted to dislike you because I was 13 and insecure and you were effortlessly beautiful, charming and talented. While I can’t remember our first conversation, I also can’t remember a day after that one that we weren’t the best of friends. Where there was one, there was always the other.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">You came into my life at an interesting time. My world was falling apart and I was holding a smile, hoping it would be enough to make it all go away. It wasn’t. But thankfully you were there. Day after day, phone call after phone call. You made the smile real, often times turning it to pee your pants laughter. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A little over a year after we met, my parent’s finalized their ugly divorce and I was on a plane to Florida. The hardest part about leaving home was leaving you. From 1,000 miles away, I used a borrowed, pre-paid cell phone to sneak chats with you from my closet at the end of the each day.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The next time I came home for the summer, you were already in Maryland after being accepted into a top-notch performing arts high school. Already chasing down your dreams. Before long, we were living our own separate lives again. Our relationship consisted of yearly visits at the NIYC convention and random phone calls. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless, we remained close enough to hold a conversation for hours, sharing our secrets. You have always been safe. Around you, I open my mouth without hesitation. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">On a whim, I decided to take you up on an offer to visit you in New York City while we were both enjoying (or enduring) our last year of college, you at The Juilliard School and me at good ole’ Ball State University. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The hour bus ride back to the city was the most awkward we’d ever shared. We literally spent the time trying to figure how many years it had been since we’d last seen each other. I can’t remember the answer to that, only that it was too many. After some Spanish food and a few of Harry’s margaritas things got back to normal. Although some re-acquainting was in order. Your voice had a more serious tone; you were living on your own in the City, doing laundry and cooking. You were a grown up. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The memories I have of that week are among my fondest. I still laugh out loud when I think of ripping my pants in Central Park, the disappointment I felt when you told me you didn’t eat hot dogs as we passed Gray’s Papaya, the happy hours spent in serious (albeit tipsy) conversation at Harry’s and the night before I went home, when I sat down on the floor and let you cut my hair. All of it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I returned home the next morning, overjoyed to be reunited with my best friend. I’m proud to know you, blessed to love you and grateful to call you friend. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Now, if we could just fix this long distance thing... </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I love you forever, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Tiffany</span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-34009717870330668462011-01-12T22:17:00.001-05:002011-01-12T22:27:19.013-05:00A New ChallengeI've neglected this blog lately for two reasons: 1. I've been pouring all of my writing energy into the Invictus Writers book project (which I'll tell you more about later) and 2. I've found it much harder to write my truth in public now that I'm a member of the real world. <br />
<br />
I've been told that I'm a very private person, and I would agree that I am. I realize the irony of that as I write a very public blog post on my ever so personal blog. But, I'm a writer by nature and have been since before the life of this blog and the other social networking sites where I choose to my life in public. <br />
<br />
It all seemed much less intimidating when I started, a college kid shuffling around on campus with 22,000 other kids. But fast forward to 6 months post-college and I'm a professional (though I can't bring myself to say that in real life), surrounded by clients, colleagues, bosses, endless responsibilities and overwhelming pressure. Needless to say I've found myself retreating back into my little shell. <br />
<br />
But, I've been lurking as always because the blogosphere is still my home. When my friend Ashley or @SmashFizzle (her Twitter handle since we've never met in person), started 30 Days of Letters I gushed with excitement. And when my brilliant former classmate and friend, Megan, joined in I knew I couldn't resist. Another friend, Sierra, said that if I'd do it, she would too. <br />
<br />
And so it begins again, my first challenge since the <a href="http://tiffanyholbert.blogspot.com/2010/01/so-this-is-challenge-eh.html">90-in-90</a>. Starting tomorrow I'll be writing 30 letters for 30 days in the company of some amazing women. <br />
<br />
It feels kind of Ya-Ya sisterhood-ish. In a good way. My letters will be posted here, but be sure to keep up with <a href="http://acford.blogspot.com/">Ashley</a>, <a href="http://lafrancofile.blogspot.com/2011/01/reconnect.html">Megan</a>, and <a href="http://sierranicolle.blogspot.com/">Sierra</a> as well. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">30 Days of Letters</div>Day 1 — Your Best Friend<br />
Day 2 — Your Crush<br />
Day 3 — Your parents<br />
Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)<br />
Day 5 — Your dreams<br />
Day 6 — A stranger<br />
Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush<br />
Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend<br />
Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet<br />
Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to<br />
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to<br />
Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain<br />
Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you<br />
Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from<br />
Day 15 — The person you miss the most<br />
Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country<br />
Day 17 — Someone from your childhood<br />
Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be <br />
Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind. Good or bad<br />
Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest<br />
Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression<br />
Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to<br />
Day 23 — The last person you kissed<br />
Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory <br />
Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times<br />
Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to<br />
Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day<br />
Day 28 — Someone that changed your life<br />
Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to<br />
Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirrorTiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-14141161211552269072010-12-01T22:29:00.003-05:002010-12-01T22:29:20.105-05:00Until Then<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It’s painfully still in this downtown apartment. Hours pass before I blink and wonder what’s next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m comforted by the sound of cars whizzing by and airplanes roaring overhead as the smell of smoke rises from the jazz lounge on the first floor. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s just enough to remind me that I’m not as alone as I feel up here, away from the small town homeliness I’m trying to forget. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had myself convinced that this place would be everything I needed to shape the life that I wanted. It all made perfect sense just a few short months ago. I’d be a young professional in the city with a PR/advertising gig by day to pay the bills while the nights spent writing in the coffeehouse on the corner would keep my soul alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d become friends with the single strangers in the quaint little cafés on Saturday afternoons. I’d be busy. I’d be full. I’d be content. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s empty. All of it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And harder to fill than I ever could have imagined. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve had trouble finding the words lately. The feelings. I know they’re there, but I can’t reach them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until then, it’s just me, the sounds and the stillness. </div><!--EndFragment-->Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-16409775866943213292010-11-21T20:31:00.002-05:002010-11-21T20:31:46.453-05:00When It All Stays The Same<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes it feels like a punishment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This aloneness that follows me everywhere I go. From one side of the country to the other, from adolescence to young adulthood. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The story remains the same. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The long weekends of silence once the busyness of life has slowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The phone that doesn’t ring, the knock that doesn’t come. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I stay locked away inside myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I spend more time in this apartment than I should, fixing carefully crafted meals for one and turning into bed early; an attempt to escape the crushing loneliness that has permeated this space. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lie down and dream that maybe tomorrow there will be someone who wants to stick around for a while. There’s got to be someone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I told myself long ago, there will either be a time when it all changes, or it’ll all stay the same. It seems that the latter is true. Maybe this is the thorn in my flesh, the ache that I’ll be reminded of daily in the midst of joyful moments and contentedness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And because I can’t spend my life waiting, I go looking for those moments in places where it feels ok to be alone. These have always been my favorite, the bookstores, cafés and darkened movie theaters, where I can busy myself without a companion. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, while my dinner was simmering in the Crock Pot, I lunched in a place that’s frequented by friends and lovers. Alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I forewent the security blanket that is my laptop. But I did bring along a hearty novel, just in case. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I swooped in and took the only table for two left. The place was packed; the chatter and laughter of friends and young families surrounded me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I ordered quickly and opened the book, hiding my face until my plate came. When it did I looked up to thank my waiter and spotted at the very back of the restaurant an older man, with a long salt and pepper ponytail resting on his neck. He held a book in front of his face, looking around at the flip of each page. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I caught his eye for only a second, which was long enough to get me wondering whether this was his joyful moment, or the end of a long string of mornings waking up alone. </div><!--EndFragment-->Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-152152125813623962010-08-22T22:41:00.002-04:002010-08-22T22:53:17.429-04:00Once More, With Feeling<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">August 21, 2010</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I turned 23 today. And it was a little disappointing as birthdays and other so-called monumental occasions tend to be. As there is often the absence of some feeling we were desperately hoping to feel again or for the very first time. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">For some reason, I thought spending my time here in Tampa would feel less lonely, but the loneliness is within—that’s always been the problem. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">However, after eight days away I’m refreshed enough to go back to Indiana with a new attitude to accompany my new job. A new start to a new life, hopefully something a little more like what I’ve always imagined. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Soon, I’ll have my own place. Somewhere that feels like my home again. It’s been too long. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There are so many changes on the road ahead. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of it all. I spent my whole summer trying to get ahead and now I’ve got to catch up to where I’ve gotten. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">How it’s all going to happen—I’m not sure. But it’s got to. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">All of it. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The weight has got to come off. It will require all of my strength and discipline, considering the circumstances. I’ve got no other choice when I think of it every day and feel ashamed of my body. It’s time. I’m secretly hoping the physical changes will attract the man I’m waiting for. Whomever he is. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That, without a doubt, violates some self-love law, but it’s my truth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There are other grown-up things to deal with—skeletons to evict, dreams to chase, loves to let go. You know, the gut-wrenching things that are impossible to prepare for.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I told a friend the other day that I’m almost happy. A little more than yesterday and even more tomorrow, I hope. Maybe it’s a natural progression, something I’ll work my way into when the time is right.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Or maybe it’s one of those feelings. </span></div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-49238315393305043142010-07-18T15:01:00.000-04:002010-07-18T15:01:48.820-04:00The Summer I Fell Out of Love<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s taken me months to get through this in my head. <br />
<br />
Months to regain some sense of sanity and control over my emotions towards this person that I’ve known all along wouldn’t take the risk and love me back. <br />
<br />
It’s been a long, quiet journey. One I haven’t shared here one the page, my most sacred of places. Nor have I even uttered a word of it to my closest friends. <br />
<br />
It was silent misery, the tears on my pillow every night when I thought of him before drifting off to sleep. <br />
<br />
All I wanted is to not love him or for him to let himself love me back. <br />
<br />
And there were many a times when I thought I saw the latter happening. When he looked at me with eyes I’d never seen and lost his words mid-sentence, recovering only after looking away for a long moment. <br />
<br />
It was the kind of love that I fell into on accident. Gradually the crushing became a little less cute and carefree. I found myself vying for his attention, his adoration. <br />
<br />
And I got it. And, of course it left me wanting more. All of his attention and adoration. <br />
<br />
And that’s what never came. <br />
<br />
Then the anger set in, the bitterness. <br />
<br />
His every word, even the ones I once thought were sweet and charming made my blood boil. <br />
<br />
In my anger I began to wonder, is this what I want? To convince someone that I’m worth their love and affection. To tell them that I’m okay to love? <br />
<br />
Of course not. So I took a step toward real love–which starts with me–and let the agony go. <br />
<br />
As for him, he’s just a small part of a much bigger lesson. </span>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-63468287895064212742010-06-07T20:19:00.004-04:002010-06-07T22:11:37.457-04:00Scavenger HuntI spent yesterday with a friend doing a random assortment of things including but not limited to: picking out a bike (for her), geeking out an old car show, and scavenging through the Goodwill for books and decorative pieces.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Throughout the day—and night— we laughed and talked and laughed some more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The theme of the conversation that broke our fits of laughter: Restructuring. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Newness has enveloped us both. As twenty-somethings there are constantly gains, losses and unexpected transitions. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And sometimes on a Saturday afternoon while rifling through books at the Goodwill you realize that your life is not what you expected. That you are not quite who you want to be. (Which is not a dig on used-book hunting, that will continue.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Life has a way of breaking the fits of laughter, it seems. Whether it is in the form of an emotional upset, over-packed schedules or the aforementioned gains, losses and transitions. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At some point, though, there is a sense of urgency to get things back in working order. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve reached that point. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s time for me to make a constant effort to be who I want to be. To make my life what it should be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve settled into my internship now, and I love it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, the 9-5 life or 7:30-6:30 life, actually, has consumed my energy. My creativity has wane, which is the most frightening thing for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As much as I enjoy my internship, I am incredibly frustrated by the lack of dimension in my life. The same was true of being a full-time student. And I feared the emptiness that I’m experiencing now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s time to make my life full. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so a new adventure begins, one with much more purpose than so many of my others. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m off to rifle trough the monotony of life in search of those precious things, people and places that will keep me happy, inspired and full. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-31722273509650246692010-06-06T03:36:00.003-04:002010-06-06T03:37:39.631-04:00Simple Words And MelodiesSometimes I wish that someone were here with me now.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A warm body to brush against. Breathing, other than my own, to fill the silence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I’m sure that just being here would be enough. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That anything more would be too much. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In 2006, my already fragile world was destroyed. In a matter of minutes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I fainted at first. Then, I laughed out of shock. Then I defended the betrayer, at my expense. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was—is—far more than I’ve ever had the courage to explain. It is something I dread explaining to the person that’s around long enough to deserve an explanation</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s how the chips fell. It was my trust that was irreparably damaged. Four lonely years later, I know for sure it was, indeed, irreparable. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My only confidante is this page, full of the words I wish I could speak to that warm, breathing body. Which sometimes, in a moment of bravado, with trembling hands and a sour stomach, I have the courage to share with strangers and associates and friends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Other times not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The nots are not good for my sanity. I am eaten up on the inside. And I lay in this room with simple words and melodies playing on repeat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;">And I pray for sleep. Or the courage to speak. Or to forget. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;">All of my excitement about this new life complete with my own place and agenda are tainted by the right now. These reality pangs. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;"> No matter how great the day, there is always a lonely night with more longing than I can handle gracefully. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 316.0pt;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Sometimes, I wish that I were full. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That the nights were as pleasant as the days. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That I knew which parts of me were real and which are just remnants of the destruction, waiting to be sifted. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-68238272302408683752010-05-25T21:20:00.001-04:002010-05-25T21:38:53.851-04:00NotsLife is an interesting hue these days.<br />
<br />
I can't say exactly what I expected, only that this is not it.<br />
<br />
Some things, like the internship, have worked out brilliantly. I fretted for an entire year about securing an internship. Sweated, nearly had anxiety attacks and doubted myself each time one of my fellow students came back with their exciting news.<br />
<br />
Just in the nick of time, though, I came back with my own exciting news; securing a full-time internship at an advertising and PR agency and another at a social media and marketing company. I accepted the agency internship and I just hoped that I'd enjoy my summer. And that I'd be busy. And that it would all be enough.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, I absolutely love the internship. And I'm busier than I could have imagined; exhausted by each day's end.<br />
<br />
But it's not enough. There are things—people—missing.<br />
<br />
This is what I've always feared. In that irrational way that only makes sense because I feel it. It is the kind of fear that only slips out in my writing. The kind that people, who don't know me the way they think they do, question.<br />
<br />
Those people don't know the stories that feed the fear. That just tonight, I nearly begged a friend to hang out with me this weekend (and after typing that I'm confident that won't be happening again, weekends on my own aren't THAT bad).<br />
<br />
This wouldn't be honest writing if I didn't acknowledge the resentment I've felt the last few months. I've never had many friends, but when I have them, I am a friend.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, I define that differently than a great many of the people I've met. There are some, a precious few, that understand that word in the same way that I do. It has never failed, though, that life pulls us a measurable and tangible distance apart.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's the way it's meant to be.<br />
<br />
Or maybe this is the voice of fear, not as removed from me as I expected.Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-73550447571511692862010-05-16T00:35:00.002-04:002010-05-16T02:48:02.318-04:00The Awfulness of Endings, Surprises and New Beginnings<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I live my life quietly, most of the time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Until the silence begins to eat away at my sanity, stains my cheeks with unexplained tears and weighs my breaths with heaviness and anxiety. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And so here I am. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been busy these past few weeks, finishing up the last classes of my undergraduate career, enjoying my mom’s graduation and then my own and getting my feet wet with a full-time internship at a full service PR and advertising agency. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There hasn’t been time for silence or stillness. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This is my first free weekend in a long while, the second night that I’ve found myself laying silently in my bed, thinking. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I think it’s safe to say that I’ve now made it through another ending. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There is a bit of sadness, as there always is; disappointment, as there always is; and surprise, another constant element in the midst of change. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">These are things that I’ve ignored, refused to acknowledge, through the slow-down that preceded the end and the quick pick up that was the new beginning. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Endings are terrible. I dread them with reason; the goodbyes that only one of us knows is the last, the unmet expectations, the longing that I’ve learned will never subside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And I’d like to skim over the details: the tears that I refused to cry, the people that broke my heart by not being there, the words left unsaid. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But silence makes such skimming hard, if not impossible, to do. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s been a much smoother transition than I expected; my first steps into the big wide world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Even still, I’ve found myself hurting and longing, disappointedly. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I had a bit of an outburst while on the phone with a friend the other day, after which I was able to process all of the emotion that is now making its way to the surface. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It comes down to letting go. Something I’ve got to do. The sooner the better. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">To wave goodbye, as I nearly shouted on the phone, to those that have decided that they don’t want to be here with me as I expected them to be. As they said they’d be. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">To stop loving the boy that I keep letting break my heart with his indecision. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">To stop hoping, waiting, foolishly for the things that I know will never come. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There were—are—however, some beautiful surprises in the midst of all the shuffling.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There are some people that I’m not saying goodbye to as soon as I’d expected. And others that have found their way back in my life- even if only for a catching up of sorts</span></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I got a kick-ass internship, something that I worried anxiously about all semester. And I’m enjoying it much more than I thought I would. </span></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">participated in the commencement ceremony with the people I’ve spent the last two years with and grown to love. It’s a memory we can all share, sitting out on the quad chatting (during the commencement speech) and laughing that last time before we scattered off to find—and make— our own places in the world.</span></li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">These are the things that I’ll hold on to, open-handedly, of course, as I let go of the gut wrenching awfulness that I expect at each end. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It is the surprises that will usher in the new beginning.</span></div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-38563114590711423242010-05-05T01:34:00.002-04:002010-05-05T14:40:43.394-04:00Elements Outside My Control I’ve anticipated this week for months.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve dreaded the emotion— or lack of— that I associated with these last days. I’ve been too busy for it though. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s finals week, and as a senior my remaining obligations are ones I am left to manage on my own. I’ve got one paper left to revise and another yet to write. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve spent the entire day at home. I’ve busied my mind with cleaning, organizing, planning my summer and collecting recipes, pages and pages of recipes. No paper writing, as my motivation is wane and my mind already past this point in time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve spent a lot of time envisioning what my life will look like after these next three months. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This move home, though purposed, assailed my independence in a way I didn’t expected. Which is the main reason that I considered packing up once again and getting on a plane back to Tampa immediately following graduation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t at all the way it was planned. I’ve taken care of myself since I was 14, when I had to just figure it out step by step and keep moving. Since then, I’ve worked to make it work. No questions asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am proud of my independence during that time; the courage I had to navigate a new city and build a new life away from everything I knew. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve always had an independent spirit. I try to live with as few attachments as possible, something that’s hurt a few people along the way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can recall countless conversations I've initiated about establishing boundaries and holding on with open hands. I am overly protective of my freedom and my time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">All this because I know that once I’m in, I’m in. With my love and affection, I am relentless. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am attached now. My heart has been won, it seems. It’s beating for more than just me, aching for more than just me, leaping for more than just me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On nights like tonight, when I’m enjoying my aloneness and the solitude that comes from being disconnected, I hate this. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This reminder that my life is never entirely my own. That I am loving right now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Something that I wish I had a little more control over. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I haven't fled and I haven't shut down. When it comes to the things I can control, I'm figuring it out. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-42038241006214421822010-05-02T23:14:00.004-04:002010-05-02T23:27:10.812-04:00DisappointmentThe memory of my 14<sup>th</sup> birthday party has been swimming in my head for the past couple of weeks.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My family doesn’t do big birthdays. Not that I can remember. Then again, the memory of my life at home breaks somewhere after early childhood at about five or six years old to this adolescent stage where I was anticipating my parent’s divorce and then dealing, as best I could, with the aftermath. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That year, though, I decided to plan my own party. I began telling my Mom exactly what I wanted a week—maybe two— in advance. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even then, in the time when we are trying desperately to impress our peers, I had an appreciation for the simplicity of things. I wanted a small get-together at my house with grilled hot dogs, my mom’s macaroni and cheese and my godmother’s famous baked-beans. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I invited three of my closest friends from school, my new best friend from church and her parents, my youth pastor, and my extended family. We sent little invitations that my Mom wrote up, and I was excited. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My birthday was on a Sunday. We went to church as usual and came back to my house afterward. The majority of those invited went to church with us and followed us back to the house, changed out of their Sundays’ best and settled in for the party. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everyone was hungry, as people generally are, after spending the morning in church. My mom and godmother finished preparing the food in the kitchen and everyone lined up at the counter ready for the food that was assembled buffet style. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My Dad scolded me when I jumped to the front of the line and told me that guests eat first. (I will let my kids eat first on their birthdays, but it was a good lesson in hospitality.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Embarrassed, I sat down at the table and waited for my friends from school to arrive. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And waited. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was laughter and movement all around me when my world stopped. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember trying indiscreetly to get my moms attention. When I did, I whispered in her ear that my friends hadn’t shown up and no one had brought any gifts or cards (except my godmother). To the first she told me to call them and to the second she said something to the effect of so what, before she went back to being a good hostess. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I grabbed the phonebook before I sat back down at the table searching for phone numbers. I couldn’t reach anyone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They never showed up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was popular growing up. People always knew my name, adults because I was the daughter of a teacher and administrator and kids because I was athletic and tried a bit of everything as a kid. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I’ve never had a lot of friends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Quality over quantity became my motto somewhere along the way, when I started having to explain. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This isn’t always an issue though, until the three don’t show up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***<br />
<br />
I’ve been arguing back and forth with my Mom this past week over the phone and this weekend in person.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m one week away from graduation now and I’m anxious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Both about the actual graduation ceremony—I’m a little paranoid that they won’t call my name because this May ceremony, much bigger and more celebratory than the July ceremony isn’t really mine, since I have yet to complete my internship requirement—and my post graduation celebration. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got permission to walk in May, I told my mom that I wanted a small get-together after the graduation; just my family and close family friends together for an afternoon at park with hot dogs and hamburgers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mom got my grandma on board with the planning and addressing of the graduation announcements and invitations. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My grandma is a socialite and its spun out of control now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While I have no idea who will actually show up, very few of the invitations have been sent to people that I actually know and feel close to. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last night at dinner, complete with the divorced parents, my grandma and step-grandpa sister and niece and nephew, I lost it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I never wanted it to be something you guys would have to fuss over, I said.” Hot dogs and hamburgers at the park, I continued. That’s all I want.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s all it is, my grandmother said. You can’t just do these things without any planning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not fun for me when I’m surrounded by strangers, I continued, this frustration that’s been building now overflowing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, you haven’t told me any of the friends you want me to invite, my Mom said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t have friends to invite, I keep telling you,” I snapped back. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The word friend is something pretty weighty to me, granted to only those that I know will show up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m in another one of those weird transition phases with my friendships. My closest friends are in Florida, living their lives. Our communication is almost nonexistent now. Our lives are going on, moving further from the time when we were bonded so tightly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I’ve made a few connections here, people whose company I enjoy. But the timing, as it often is, is bad. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s the disappointment I’m worried about. Sitting at the table waiting while the party continues around me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Those that do show up, however, will be greeted with a smile, warm hug, and genuine thank you. Another lesson in hospitality I’ve learned along the way. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-23979823876059421052010-05-02T00:35:00.001-04:002010-05-02T00:36:34.930-04:00ScarletI find myself here on nights like tonight when I'm holding back. Stuck in a loop with this song that doesn't make much sense unless it resonates. Which, for me, it does.<br />
<div><br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qy8h-yel0gg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qy8h-yel0gg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-32673714959343215462010-04-29T00:07:00.000-04:002010-04-29T00:07:05.548-04:0090/90The end is never quite what I expect it to be. But, we know what they say about expectations.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been anticipating this end for 90 days. I assumed that there would be this huge exhale, an incredibly satisfying sense of accomplishment, that I’d celebrate somehow, even. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As it turns out, I’m laying in my bed trying desperately not to fall asleep. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not that I’m not excited or proud of this accomplishment, I am. But, the most powerful part of this process happened on some unmarked day along the way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">My professor and mentor, Brad, <a href="http://www.thebradking.com/2010/01/28/90-in-90/">threw down the challenge</a> 90 days ago. 91, actually. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On Day 1, Brad, <a href="http://commerciallydeveloped.blogspot.com/">Megan</a> and I were sitting around drinking coffee, eating blueberry pancakes and talking writing; something we did a few times throughout this journey. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember the panic that washed over me when Brad asked if we were in, if we’d commit to writing and publishing every day for 90 days. Here I was sitting with two writers, who in conversation reference writers that I’ve never heard of, let alone read. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Publish every day, I asked back nervously. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I knew it only be a matter of time before I was found out. Words weren’t made for hiding. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mine has been an unpursued passion outside of the pages of my journals and unofficial “blogs”. I’ve toyed with the pursuit many times over, never quite sure how far I could go, choosing to stop before I was crushed and devastated. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t think I could do it. I thought sure at some point, far before 90/90 that I’d run out of words and creative energy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I did, several times. It’s evident in the writing, the peaks and valleys, excitement and misery, assuredness and angst. It’s all there. Because I kept writing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;">I stopped staring at the screen while entertaining my fears and started writing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;">I’ve got no doubt that the crushing devastation will come, sooner rather than later. I expect that. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;">At which point, I’ll remember the 90 posts in 90 days where I learned that I must write on both the days that I feel like a writer and the days I feel like a fraud. I must write on the days when the words bubble up on the inside and explode on the page and the days that I force them, letter by letter. I must write when I am empty and when I am full. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;">I must write. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;">And I assume that this ending is empty because it’s actually a beginning. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-54917423629656862582010-04-28T02:24:00.002-04:002010-04-28T15:40:58.333-04:00On To the Next (89/90)I started working at 7 p.m.; hunkered down, turned my phone off and began plugging away.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got lost in the moment, which ended up lasting over four hours. The only other time this happens is when I’m writing. Really writing. Last semester many a Thursday and Friday nights once the hustle and bustle of the week settled, I’d write and re-write and write some more, losing hours without an ounce of regret. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> But, that hasn’t happened at all recently. The stress, anxiety and exhaustion of this last semester have kept me grounded. Always right here, consciously pushing through every single minute. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So despite the amount of work that awaits me still at 1:15 a.m., I feel good. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I spent the evening working on my <a href="http://www.tiffanyholbert.com/">social media project</a>. There were—and still are—a lot of logistics to work out but people have begun to share their stories and pictures and it’s been thrilling to say the least. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was refreshing to get outside of my head and focus my energy on something bigger than me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The 90 in 90 challenge is just about over now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And throughout these 90 days I’ve worried about the end, as I always do. The warm-up period, as I dubbed it, is over and it’s time for the writing to become something more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, my social media project, presents the perfect opportunity to develop my first real writing project. I found that the recurring theme in the meta-monologue that has been my writing thus far has been an exploration of identity and appearance. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The site asks one simple question: When was the first time you were made aware of your appearance? I think that all of us has one very memorable, often times painful or uncomfortable memory of that moment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I share, I’m asking people to <a href="http://www.tiffanyholbert.com/profiles/">share with me</a>. It is through these stories that I’ll embark on the first of my adventures in storytelling. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-54224798575035102572010-04-27T02:24:00.002-04:002010-04-27T02:57:10.087-04:00Little Breakthroughs (88/90)I used to cry when I got my hair cut at the salon.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Actually, I’d be my sweet little self in the chair, holding my tears, disappointment and frustration until my Mom picked me up. I’d always ask her to do the talking before she left me sitting there in that chair in the hands of some adult that I was too shy to speak with. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Tell them not to cut it, I’d remind her naggingly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes she would, sometimes she wouldn’t. Sometimes they’d listen, sometimes they wouldn’t. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve always had healthy, strong hair. Which for me meant that I had no qualms about abusing it through excessive heat and color treatments (once I was old enough). But, the heat and chemical damage would always catch up with me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d cringe as I watched my hair fall from my head, to the apron tied loosely around me, to its final resting place on the floor, snipped quickly and carelessly by the stylist. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I’d sit with my book in my hands, pretending that I wasn’t even fully aware of what was happening. I’ve always tried extremely hard not to be difficult, even if it meant I’d have to cry later. Once the stylist was finished and handed me the mirror I’d glance too quickly to see anything. Then, I’d smile, give a nod of approval and push the mirror away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mom would breeze in and begin laughing and talking with the stylist, the way that she does with just about everyone. I’d grow irritable and anxious as I sat waiting to get in the car to whine and complain and figure out how to work with what had just been done. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve never been one for change when it comes to my appearance. I’m a minimalist; I find basic pieces and styles that work and add personality with (still very basic) accessories. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And pull it all together with the hair. I allow the hair, more than the clothes, to speak for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When my team for my capstone class decided to add a little flair to our professional dress to match our fashion forward retail client, I immediately said, I’ll blow out my hair, but that’s all I got. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I finally went through with it for the first time. I blew it out that morning and rocked the big hair and a little bit of attitude. Of course, it was a little uncomfortable, but it was because of the big hair that day that I felt as fashionable as the girls that accessorized our all-black attire with fancy make-up, shoes and other bright jewelry. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the year that I’ve been natural, I’ve done little by way of maintenance to my hair. Aside from being busy and a little lazy there’s a lot I’ve still got to learn in terms of caring for natural hair. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Needless to say, I’ve gone without a trim the entire year. My hair has been shedding and knotting like crazy and, as I’ve read on the natural hair blogs, that’s how you know it’s time. Past time, actually. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a few days of the blow out I decided to give the trim a shot. Myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I held small sections between my fore and middle fingers, pulling each one straight and trimming all that I could see through, as I’d inconspicuously watched the stylist do to my relaxed hair for so many years. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It took double the time I thought it would—two hours— and I needed to trim more than I anticipated. I didn’t fret too much about the length because one of the great things about natural hair is that it grows like weeds. It’s already longer than when I cut it last year. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I did hold off bringing the curls (and <a href="http://newlynatural.com/blog/2010/01/shrinkage-and-you/">shrinkage</a>) back to life with a fresh wash. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until tonight, specifically because I knew I was in for a shock. I’ve got so much thick, fluffy hair that it was hard to tell any difference when it was still blown out. But I knew the trim would be apparent after the wash. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it was. My hair feels much better and was easier to detangle, which was the point. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I can’t look in the mirror. Not for long. Still, I’ve decided to skip the whining and complaining and go straight to figuring out what can be done with what I’ve just done. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-12643372232028366262010-04-26T02:45:00.005-04:002010-04-26T08:35:38.889-04:00Beyond (87/90)There is but one week left of classes now, plus a few last obligations during finals week. There are only three days left of the 90 in 90 challenge (though I’m over an hour late on 87/90 now) and I’m looking ahead.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope to spend the summer interning in Indy though I haven’t been offered an internship yet. I’ve just decided, within the past month, that I’ll stay here this year instead of returning to Tampa as I had considered. I think it may be good for me to be still for a little while and try to establish myself as a real grown-up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m too worn out to panic over how quickly these last days are passing. Instead, I’m reveling in each moment spent with the people I’ve grown to love and planning the summer and next few years ahead. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Depending on how the internship prospects play out, I may get a part-time job at one the malls in Indy and try to save every penny that I can (which may turn out to be a problem if I get a job at a bookstore, like I’d hope to) in order to get my own place as quickly as possible. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Outside of the internship maybe part-time job, this summer will be all about the writing and the reading. As I said in the beginning, where the 90 in 90 ends, the real challenge begins. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s time to start developing the first real writing project (and handing the work over for critique). I’m excited about incorporating stories from my social media project, but first I’ve got to really ramp it up on that spend a lot of time building that community and finding the stories that I want to tell. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m excited for the time I’ll have to read non-assigned books. I’ll start with the four books that have gone untouched on my nightstand since the middle of this semester and then tackle the reading list that I’ve begun to assemble with some classics that I’ve yet to experience and some more modern creative non-fiction. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 346.5pt;">To fuel this writing, reading, interning filled summer, I’m going to try to give up red meat come and stick to a core-foods diet plan. I’ve also got four new Jillian Michaels hard core workout DVD’s in addition to the several others that I added to my collection last year when I was obsessed with the weight loss. I want it all to feel less like a punishment this time though, so I’m trying to figure that out. And I’ve contemplated starting a weekly weight loss vlog for accountability’s sake. We’ll see. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 346.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 346.5pt;">I think I’m nearing the point where I’m ready to close this chapter and begin the next; life beyond college and writing beyond the blog. I’ve got no choice really, that point is nearing, whether I’m ready or not. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-33585873436309021382010-04-26T00:32:00.001-04:002010-04-26T00:37:57.498-04:00Blue-Gray (86/90)<div class="MsoNormal">I’m not quite sure what to do with myself right now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel a bit unsettled and antsy. This is a night that if were in Tampa I’d take a long drive over the bridge, surrounded by only the blueness of the water and the grayness of the sky. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is no distraction for a nagging heartache. And as much as I want to go, somewhere—anywhere— I know that it is inescapable. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve thought a lot about my disappointment over <a href="http://tiffanyholbert.blogspot.com/2010/04/fool-that-i-am-8590.html">this finality</a> that fully realizing now and I think it goes beyond him and us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">My hope has been ashamed. Which of course makes hope feel, well, foolish. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am always ill prepared for endings. Not because I don’t anticipate them, but because I’m always holding out hope for some huge transformation. One that never really happens. And I know that. But I hope. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve spent nearly the entire weekend in, something I denied myself the past few months. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve made a few associates over this last semester ones whom I’m comfortable enough around to spend long periods of time. And I’ve tried to become more social. But, as evidenced by the irritability after too many weekends out and about, I am not a socialite. And I’m allowing myself to realize that I never will be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I needed this weekend alone desperately; the time to clear my head, to be still and quiet. And for the first time in months I feel ready for the week ahead: the last of my undergraduate classes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I am without contentment. Longing for someone here that gets me. Someone that I needn’t perform for. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s something that my old pastor used to say over and over from the pulpit, and I’m not sure if it’s meat or bones, but it’s stuck with me: People change, but not that much. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Herein lies the disappointment. It is with me. Not with us, or the end of the idea of us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is my life and I’m always hoping for huge transformations that just aren’t happening. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;">My move here was multi-purposed and it’s hard to explain it without explaining the year that preceded it. But, I set out to add some dimension to my life. I stopped living in and for church and planned on finding and indulging in things that would fill me back up and consume my time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;">That first year back was the loneliest, emptiest year of my little life. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;">I didn’t gain the friends that I convinced myself would be so easy to make, the Midwestern boys didn’t fawn over me the way that my mom assured me they would and I didn’t have the courage to fully pursue this dream. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;">I remember the lunches by myself day after day where I hid in corners and tried not to cry or stare at the people around me doing—being— everything I said I would. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;">This, all of it, is not turning out the way that I expected two, five, ten years ago. It’s emptier than happy-endings and new beginnings should be. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 331.0pt;">And besides hope for some huge transformation, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. </div>Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7708637485520270901.post-26222975893259672622010-04-25T01:22:00.003-04:002010-04-26T03:00:53.160-04:00Fool That I Am (85/90)There was an unfortunate happening last night that sucked me into a whirlwind. <br />
<br />
I shouldn’t even call it a happening, really. It was just a conversation that I witnessed online. Which is the ironic thing about the amount of time that I spend behind my computer, away from the world— I still don’t miss much. <br />
<br />
And the little pings back and forth in cyberspace are no different than the subtleties that I am never able to miss in real life, because I’m far too observant than I need to be. <br />
<br />
I dreamed about this day, a little over three months ago. I remember waking up feeling exactly as I do now; torn and broken but ready to move on somehow. So, I wrote. I’ll share bits and pieces of what was too raw to publish then and still is, because maybe this is the somehow. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I woke up from a dream this morning that I keep convincing myself was just a dream. It was one of those that lingers, stays with you all day heavy on your heart, but it’s hard to recall the details with your head. <br />
<br />
I remember that it broke my heart because it still feels broken although I know it wasn’t real. <br />
<br />
We talked last night, intimately, in the way that we do when we’re not crying from laughing too hard. And I felt exhilarated. I remembered thinking, now if only any of the ones after me now could talk with me like this; this is a conversation worth having. <br />
<br />
As we said our goodbyes he said: Don’t go too fast, I want to experience some things with you. <br />
<br />
And I let my heart get excited, as I wondered exactly what he meant. <br />
<br />
I dreamed that finally, he was with me and I with him. The happy ending that I’ve always hoped for. That’s until I saw his phone, and his plans to rush off and be with her.I thought it couldn’t be real. I would have even chosen to believe the “we’re just friends” lie again, but instead he confirmed my fears when he said: “I want to be with her, I choose her.”<br />
<br />
And what can be said to that? <br />
<br />
I’ve got no defense for my selfish love; one that fills me, but keeps him from what—whom— he really wants. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I spent last night and the better part of the day trying to determine why this story is one that keeps repeating. <br />
<br />
I’ve always been described as loyal, and I am to a fault. My heart is won over too easily and I never walk away when all the warning signs say that I should.I keep telling myself that I’ll soon reach the point where those things will work in my favor. But that hasn’t proven true just yet.<br />
<br />
Because for me, it means something when he feels comfortable enough to talk to me through the night and into the morning, quiet only once he lays his head in my lap to sleep. But all that was really meant by that is that I was a comfortable, safe resting place.<br />
<br />
Which isn’t what he wanted after all.<br />
<br />
This is number three of such happenings, though. All within different contexts but devastating just the same. For the past several years my life has been full of these almost, should be, would-have-beens. <br />
<br />
And it’s the almosts that are the most crushing and humiliating, because like that conversation that I witnessed last night, they never happen quietly or with any intention of secrecy. <br />
<br />
I’ve grown tired of it all, really. <br />
<br />
I feel these breaks happening every time. It’s time that I stop waiting for the crumble to realize that such happenings aren’t actually so unfortunate.Tiffany Holberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326050290063863640noreply@blogger.com0