Bees (in the Trap)

I have been a bad girl lately; I haven't written in my blog.

I could blame it on work, so I will. Foliage season was crazy and tiring, then I caught a cold because I wasn't sleeping much at all. But foliage ended a few weeks ago, so since then I have no excuse other than pure lack of inspiration. I sit an obsess all day long over what I want to blog about, and I've even had some inspirations, but before I could put them out there to the world, the thoughts would be lost and I forgot what I wanted to write about in the first place.

I do remember one thing, though.

I went to visit Ben in Boston last weekend. When we pulled off the exit and drove into the actual city, I felt my chest tighten - Country-girl-in-a-city syndrome, common diagnosis. Anyway, although I was feeling underdressed and completely out of my element, it was so nice to see Ben. Not only because he's my best friend, but it was so cool to see him know his way around Boston. It was a trip to watch him move with such ease through the craziness of it all, while I stumbled over my own two feet practically forgetting how to walk, feeling like an absolute fool and outcast. I admired his confidence and tried my best to internalize my anxiety attack and oncoming headache from all the energy and people that were around me. He seemed so... cool. I felt special to be around him.

After spending the day walking, shopping and eating, we drove to the hotel we were all staying at for the night. While talking over the Red Sox game and eating M&M's, I connected with his grandmother about psychic phenomena, expressing my different feelings about all my somewhat obscure views. Ben has always appreciated me because of that, though, and he and I, along with his family, seem to be on similar planes with it all.

I started talking about how I wanted to look up in my medicine cards what the meaning was behind bees, because they are always around me. I'm not kidding either, the bees always find me and I loathe them. Sometimes I wish I was allergic, just so I'd have an excuse to run away and scream like a child, as I always do when they fly around me. The feeling I have when a bee is around is similar to one that you might feel if someone puts a blanket over your head and holds it there.

Claustrophobic, and a complete panic, Holy shit I can't breathe!!!

Yeah, that's me with the bees.

Unaware that Ben's dad was tuning in, he looked up what bees meant for me. Obviously different people and websites may have different interpretations of what the spiritual meaning of bees really is, but what he found struck me to be shockingly logical, and pertaining to my life quite well.

Bees, supposedly, represent direction. Follow the bees, and they will lead you to where you need to go.

The most common places I've been seeing the bees are in my house and at work, but the most bizarre encounter I've had with them are at my mom's art studio. I've probably mentioned before that my mom has a few different spaces within the studio, and one of them is potentially going to be my writing room. From the day her and I toured the space, I felt my energy radiating all over that room. I declared it mine as soon as my mom confirmed she wanted to rent the space.

The next week when we came back in to look at it, I noticed a few bees in the room I liked, so I closed the door in an attempt to keep them out. When we went back again about a week later, it was like a friggon bee graveyard. They covered the floor, and there were still ones flying around the room. I became disheartened, because I didn't want the room anymore since it was being invaded by bees.

But when Ben's dad told me about how bees represented direction, it suddenly made a lot of sense.

I am usually anxiety stricken for at least a portion of each day. A year ago, I was so confused and lost. I had no idea what direction to go in. I was just going wherever my feet took me, with eyes closed. It was scary at times, but I tried to keep faith in the idea that fate would take me wherever I am supposed to be.

I find it interesting that the bees are in my house, at work, and in my potential writing room. As you all probably know, I went through more than enough relocations. After graduating high school, I basically have learned how to live out of a bag, and my car if need be. But I've been living where I am for a little less than a year now, and I have to say, I finally feel settled. I am so comfortable and happy to be where I am and I feel completely blessed to have found this place; a safe haven for me, my mom and the animals. Isn't it funny how the bees seem to be congregating in and outside of the house, always there as a constant reminder, announcing their presence. Yet, in the midst of my hatefulness about them being here, they are just serving as a beacon of guidance to where I need to be, which is exactly where I am.

The bees at work - always happening to be there on my shifts - I believe are representing to keep working hard. Not necessarily telling me that the job is where I need to stay, but the idea of hard work and commitment.

As for the ones in the writing room, who I believe have made their excessive presence very known, might as well be screaming at me. Do I really need a clearer sign?

I fear the bees, and at times I fear direction, but I'm started to warm up to the idea of both.

Okay, I won't lie, I still hate the bees and hope they all rot in Hell, but I will listen to them and appreciate their kind tokens of guidance.

Otherwise, they are the spawns of Satan.

Well, You Wanted to be a Writer

When I was in the third grade, we spent a lot of time learning about Native Americans. Each year afterwards, until about ninth grade, Social Studies always consisted of a long unit about Native Americans. I have to say, around fifth grade, I was pretty Native American'd out. I understood that they showed the Pilgrims how to put dead fish in the soil, plant corn and other crops, and basically showed the Pilgrims how to survive.

Later, we learned that to show their gratitude, the Pilgrims pillaged and diseased all the Natives, eventually killing them off.

But, in third grade, we did this one activity where we had to choose a book that had something to do with Native Americans, and make a triarama, which was this triangular, 3-D display made out of paper. For my book, I read The Quilt Story by Tony Johnston. I can't exactly remember the meat of this story, but I think the main character of it came from a Native American family.

I can remember working so hard on my triarama. I drew, colored, and cut out all my little pop-up pieces. I etched in a floor, completing it with details of knots in the wood. On the pop-up bed was a perfect rendition of the quilt. When it was finished, I oozed with pride over the final product. I sauntered up to my teacher's desk, careful not to drop my masterpiece. As I slid my perfect triarama across his desk, I saw his wide smile meet each one of his ears, and he lifted his eyes to mine. My third grade teacher was my favorite teacher I ever had. He was so fun and theatrical. So I knew when he pulled out a plastic bag from underneath his desk, something good was about to happen.

He dumped the contents of the bag out on his desk. The bulk of it was usual third-grader-prizes; pencils, erasers, stickers and some fake sorts of tokens. But the last thing he pulled out was a composition notebook. Not the kind with the wire rings, but the legitimate, Harriet the Spy, black and white composition notebook. I drooled at the sight of it. I picked it up almost as soon as he put it down, then he looked at me and said, "I had a feeling you'd choose that."

I filled that notebook from cover to cover with my first story I ever wrote, complete with detailed illustrations. I titled it, Mandy Brown. As you can probably guess, it was about a girl named Mandy Brown. She lived with her dad in Texas and her stepmother because her mom had passed away when she was little. She had a horse, which she continually rode en route to wherever her adventures took her. Although at the time I was only nine, I made Mandy thirteen. I can remember thinking that seemed so much older than it really was.

The other day I was stressing out over all these things I need to write. I had a short story due in one of my classes, a paper due in another, my blog and another writing project I've been putting on the back burner which is actually the most important to me but I can't seem to bring myself to find the time. Not to mention, the million "great starts" I have to stories, which I never seem to make past the second chapter.

I started complaining to Anthony about it, and his reply was, "Well, you wanted to be a writer." In usual Paige fashion, I went to protest, but instead I stopped.

He was so right.

If my foot could reach, I would have kicked myself in the mouth. Shut up, Paige!

I really hate the expression "Worry-Wart" but, I am a self-proclaimed one. I have mental meltdowns daily over fear of something bad happening to me. Since I was thirteen and watched a National Geographic Documentary about 2012, I lived in fear for six straight years that my life was going to end when I was just barely out of high school, because I was dead convinced the world was going to end. I probably wasn't the only person freaking out over that, but on a daily basis I feel anxiety that I'm going to let someone down. When I moved out of my apartment, I stressed for a month about telling my landlord I was going to leave. This past spring, I worked at this wicked shitty job, which made me miserable, yet I was so afraid of upsetting the owner I called her cell phone *67 and left a voicemail telling her I was quitting, then never picked up her calls afterwards. Last week, I left five minutes later than I normally do for class, and drove about 70 the entire way because I had so much fear about being late, which was just stupid because I'm in college, not fourth grade. Is anyone really going to do anything about me being five minutes late?

Sometimes, I can't help but think that's why I put off my writing. I had to work up some serious courage to even start this blog, because I was afraid of someone telling me my writing sucked. (Luckily, the reaction was just the opposite and this has actually been a wonderfully positive experience for me.) On the day I was running late to class, I had to submit my short story, and I was so angry because I was embarrassed to turn in such a piece of crap. But, when we had a chance to read each other's stories, I read mine, and actually thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a first draft, but it was a pretty damn good first draft! My fear of disappointing people or letting them down holds me back, and really defeats my confidence at times. I think I have a lot more to learn, not only in writing, but also just life, in general. But, where I am right now in both of those things, I need to give myself some more credit.

Anthony's response to my self-pity has been ringing in my ears since he said it. Well, you wanted to be a writer. It's still all I want; it has been since Mandy Brown.

My mom recently has been working on a project of her own with opening an art studio and gallery. For those of you who don't know, my mom is incredible at art. Lately, she's finally been referring to herself as an artist, and it's true; she is one.

I think it's about time I start calling myself a writer, because I am one.

I always have been.