Propellant

The light at the end of my hallway casts a dim, gray glow on the worn, brown carpet speckled with green and maroon flecks. Strange how something so simple, mundane and ordinary can occasionally pull one's mind out of the monotony of life, causing it to reflect on something vastly more important and infinitely more personal.

Yet, the impersonality of that light, rather than taking me back to linger on where I've been days ago, months ago, even years ago like so many impersonal memory triggers do, dragged me backwards but then propelled me forward with impressive force. The momentum of the jerkily crafted introspection left me befuddled and flustered.

It sent me backward to a time when I was a young, naive daydreamer who fantasized about the life she would one day live. Her long hair fell to the middle of her back. Her blue, wire-rimed glasses occasionally slid down the bridge of her then only once broken nose, and her mouth occasionally twitched to the left then the right, a mark of her insecurities when she felt scrutinized by all who were deemed by her as superior.

She was uncomfortable in her own skin. But that was only because she had yet to discover the soul held inside the awkward, ungraceful body. Though it is a process still taking place, the years have whittled away some of the rougher edges.

The girl in the blue-rimmed glasses would look out the window and dream of what lay ahead for her. Occasionally, she would catch her own reflection in the mirror. Depending on the day, the color of shirt she wore, or the way the sun glinted in her brown hair, the eye color looking back at her would change. This was one feature of her antagonistic body she had come to terms with, even loved. That day, her eyes were a faint green.

She dreamed of a future filled with people, events, places and memories, all of which would take root within a small portion of a heart she was willing to fill.

Since, and in between those days spent in front of windows her heart has been filled and emptied by the 24 years of experiences she has lived. They have been glorious and horrific all at once, as anyone who has truly lived can claim.

Tonight, as my hall light flipped on, I was reminded of this small, unnoticed, insecure girl.

I was reminded of this girl as I walked home in the cool air bringing Autumn to a small town in Southeastern Idaho.

I was reminded of this girl as I sat on the steps of a large apartment complex yesterday, as the shadows from the setting sun illuminated the landscape of a sleepy little town.

I was reminded of this girl as I thumbed through a stack of newspapers, the black ink from the type smudging on my fingers.

I was reminded of this girl as I drove from a quaint home in Lehi, Utah singing at the top of my lungs to songs by men named Jason, John and Adam.

I was reminded of this girl when I faced a fear. The familiar surge of triumph and accomplishment brought her back to me vividly.

I was reminded of this girl when a trusty, old cowboy scooped me into a bear hug and nearly took the wind out of me.

Each day my a quiet voice in the far reaching corners of my mind, perhaps even my soul, reminds me of this girl. Simply because she is where I've been.

My life has been one of glorious imperfection. My actions, my circumstances, my decisions are all filled with blemishes. Yet I wouldn't change a thing.

That imperfect girl has grown into a more refined imperfection. A more confident imperfection. A secure imperfection.

With the switch of a hall light, I remembered her, and smiled. Look how far she's come.

And that's when my thought propelled me into a vast future of unknown. It's a story that has yet to be written. Many things remain undecided, unscripted. But one certainty is that it will be marked with wonderful, colorful, defining moments of imperfection.