making the best of it

Within the past year, I've made some decisions that I'm not proud of and repeated some mistakes that I said I wouldn't do. Learning from mistakes is not one of my natural traits. I took a leave of absence (twice) from the College of Charleston, and during my time off I've moved to moved to Georgia to be a working student under a renowned dressage trainer, moved to Savannah, moved back to Charleston, and back to Georgia again. As the result of all this, I find myself living on my father's couch. It's easy to get down and out, to get anxious about what to do next, and I do all the time. But I try to use my time constructively, by learning how to sew, by starting this blog, and by (hopefully) learning how to make jewelry. It's something that I've recently become inspired by, and I've been collecting things from everywhere I go to use once I learn how to drill and solder.

I have to remind myself that I've been learning about myself through the mistakes I've made. That I'm not passionate enough about writing to study it in school, that maybe I'm not cut out to train horses professionally, as much as it pains me to say so.
I just want to make sure that the next move I make is what I want to do, not what I feel that I should do.

On another note, today we drove to Beaufort to celebrate the 90th birthday of my dad's double cousin (or something). Ten years ago we celebrated his 80th, when I crashed his golf cart into a tree and begged to go up in his little airplane (daddy said no, of course). This year I was a little more subdued, and listened intently to his stories of flying for the navy during WWII. There's something so inspiring about talking to someone who has lived through so many monumental things--what I wouldn't give to be able to see into his brain, to have his memories.

His property looks out over the marsh, and the view is spectacular. As much as I like to hate on the South and its ideologies and ways of thinking, it's hard to beat the oak trees and spanish moss and the marshes and beaches. It's little towns like Beaufort that remind me that it's not all bad.




















oh, and his old cars weren't too bad, either. My dad had a Model A when he was fourteen. I love it.