For too many years I’ve been wrestling with the idea of forgiveness. I’ve prayed that I’ll somehow develop a forgiving heart towards people who have hurt me, and sometimes, I’ve had fleeting heart changes. But those seem to ebb and flow, and I always seem to come back to the place where I roll my eyes and shake my head at the mention of certain names.

But this weekend I started thinking about forgiveness as a choice, rather than a feeling (and as a girl who feels too much, it’s actually nice to take a break from searching out feeling a certain way).

Perhaps it’s time to make a choice. Forgive this person. Forgive what they’ve done to you. CHOOSE to forgive. And maybe…just maybe…in some situations…choose to even forget it. Maybe it will have to be a daily thing. Especially if that person is in your daily life. But as an exercise of the will, rather than waiting on a heart change, I think we’d all grow exponentially.

And who knows? Maybe by choosing forgiveness over and over, we’ll eventually get that heart change we’ve been seeking out.

Oh…and on a side note…just in case you need it. Know that you can extend this forgiveness to yourself, too.

I miss Jan. She was always up for a walk.

I miss Sonnie. She was always down for Starbucks.

I miss Kath. She was always around for Calypso.

I miss Paul. He was always around to talk.

I miss Carly. She was always up for a sleepover.

I miss Gina. She was down for just about anything.

I miss Sara. Because…well…she’s Sara.

Being new to any place is hard. I’m coming up on my one year anniversary in Los Angeles, and while I love it, it is tough making friendships out here. The type that are around for just about anything, that is. It’s a much bigger city, and the chances of just running into friends while you’re out is incredibly low. (And I actually like LA for that reason.) But lately, I’ve been missing those deep rooted friendships.

Alright. Miss Fest 2010 is over. At least online. It’s onward and upward from here.

–noun

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Pride is a slippery little sucker.

For example, I technically live in Van Nuys, California. That is what my actual zip code actually states. But, most people familiar with the city sneer when I say, “Van Nuys.” Instead of ignoring it, because I live in a cozy, clean, safe home with wonderful neighbors and rows of well-manicured lawns, I let my pride determine my new response: “Oh, I live in an area called Lake Balboa. It’s where Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys meet.” All of which is completely true, but, holy cow. Who needs to rattle off all that to a simple question?

Or my new job at a little coffee shop seems to find a way to take shots at my pride every shift. One customer recently brought up the public school system, and how she feels like people have demonized it over the years. I told her I was a product of the public school system, as a way of agreeing with her and showing her capable, smart people can come out of it. She hesitated, then insinuated that maybe there was a reason it has the reputation it does, considering I’m just working at a coffee shop for a living. Ouch.

I could go on and on with examples, but none of it matters. Pride, in this sense, is a terrible thing. Pride causes us to grit our teeth when someone suggests they’re above us. Pride causes us to make hurtful remarks when the easiest thing to do is say thank you and hang up the phone. Pride drives us to prove prove prove…rather than being free to enjoy our lives as they are…without explanation.

So, I’m letting it go. All of it. For as long as I can. : ) And then you can kick me in the teeth and remind me to let it go. Again.

My sweet, wise friend Kathie Cocklin posted this on Facebook during Lindsay Lohan’s first (or 15th?) battle in court, but after scrolling through my news feed this morning, I thought it was appropriate to share.

Lindsey Lohan who? I cant believe the news coverage being given to a spoiled 20-something yr old. Here are a few 20 year-olds worth knowing about: Justin Allen 23, Brett Linley 29, Matt Weikert 29, Justus Bartett 27, Dave Santos 21, Chase Stanley 21, Jesse Reed 26, Matthew King 23, Christopher Goeke 23, & Sheldon Tate 27……. These 20-somethings gave their lives for you this week.

Just a moment of perspective.

My gramps has continued to be constantly on my mind over the past month. The words from family and friends at his memorial service have hung in my head and have been chewed on over and over and over…

And suddenly, his life made me wonder, when did we stop taking responsibility for ourselves?

As a little boy, my grandfather found his mother shortly after she committed suicide. A few days later, he found a note from her in his sock drawer…a note he interpreted to mean she killed herself because of him. His dad didn’t know what to do with him, so he sent my gramps off to live with his cousins. His cousins treated him horribly, and on and on the story goes of no one ever wanting this incredible boy. Not until he fell in love with my wonderful grandmother was he really wanted. And yet, he never played the victim. Never acted out of his circumstances. Always worked hard to take responsibility for himself and his actions. He remained a good man, chasing service above self and education.

Now, it seems, we’re more apt to pinpoint our shortcomings on our less-than-ideal home life. As though we’re excused from really treating people with respect, or entitled to be a little rude, or selfish, or unforgiving, because of situations in our past that made us this way. A poor home life is the ultimate bandaid.

Well. I think it’s time to grow up. To get over “what’s been done to you” and start doing right towards everyone else. And my best friend, Madea, had some great thoughts on the subject.

I am aware some people have been raised in horrible, life-altering situations. And I’m not saying everyone has the opportunity or wherewithal to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. I know some folks who have had things done to them that literally makes me think they’ve been to hell and back. But they’re also more likely to step up to the plate and take responsibility for themselves. Not all, but more than you would think.

So c’mon, Gen-Y! Let’s do this thing! As far as it is possible for us, let’s keep the peace. Take responsibility. And live like we mean it.

…I had him.

He was more than a grandpa. He took an active role in my life. In all his grandchildren’s lives. We were educated on history and geography and science and the arts when we were with him. I was 10 years old when he realized, horrified, I didn’t have every waterway to a country of my choice memorized. I was 12 when he attempted to teach me how I could always tell which way was north without a compass. He taught me how to eat politely at dinner parties. He taught me how to ask questions. He taught me how to put together a kite, and how to catch a fish.

He was tough as nails, but was so acutely aware of what was happening around him. He truly sought out opportunities to serve. He served in three wars as a pilot for B-17s and C-130s. When he was in Vietnam, he spearheaded a campaign to build a well in the Negative Barrio, which is where non-contagious lepers lived. He was generous with his time, money, resources and talents. I’ve never known anyone his equal.

I came to see him two months ago. He wasn’t doing too well, and I was crying as I was saying goodbye. He looked at me and said, “Why are you crying?” I told him it was because I was going to miss him. He looked at me, eyes tearing up a little, and said, “Miss me? I didn’t know you were aiming for me.” Then he laughed and wiggled his nose, like he always did when he wanted to make us kids laugh.

So…to David Solomon Kahne…thank you. Thank you for working so tirelessly to help shape me into the person I am. Thank you for your love. I can sincerely, and honestly, say I wouldn’t be who I am without your care. I couldn’t ask for a better grandfather.

I tend to adapt fairly easily. Which is attributed most likely to moving around every couple of years growing up. But it’s probably pretty universal that you begin to take on the cultures/expressions/tendencies/etc etc etc of the environment you’re surrounded by.

And I really…really…really don’t want to let the things I’ve picked up in Spain to wear off once I’m back in the US.

Here…you let life happen. You ENJOY. You take your time. You laugh. You let relationships happen. You strike up conversations with the people at the table next to you. You’re invited over for a drink. You breathe deeply. You rest well. You take yourself less seriously. And it’s wonderful.

I’ll miss the sangria…cafe con leche…patios facing the ocean and conversations with locals and travelers alike. I’ll miss the pace. I’ll miss the pubs during World Cup wins, the beachside sushi in Sitges, and the upfront frankness of the men. (I mean it…it was fascinating to be spoken to so bluntly.)

But I just hope I can live like this once I’m back in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Hollywood. To step back and remember to enjoy the moments, love people, be hospitable to others, and find lots (and lots) of time to laugh. And to those of you who see me on a regular basis…please remind me. : )

For now…I pack. And try to remember every detail of this summer. If you want to take a peek at my time, you can do so here.

What makes us choose who we’re kind to?

Why some, and not others?

I think part of it may come from highly social communities. I remember people being really socially exhausted in Nashville, so it was more likely for walls to go up with some folks. It wasn’t necessarily to be a jerk (although it comes off that way), it was just a defense mechanism to preserve our energy for the people we feel more naturally drawn to.

And while I think boundaries are good…I don’t think choosing who we are (and aren’t) kind to is an okay way to go about it. I see this tendency far too often in myself. And I hate it. So…it’s time to wage war on myself. To painstakingly cut that out of my character. To offer grace to those who aren’t kind to me…because I understand where their reasons may spring from. And to those I’ve treated in this manner…I’m very, very sorry.

For now…here’s another Spain peek:

Aslan's in Madrid! With Edmund and Lucy!

I forgot my sunglasses. Bad. Move.

What mealtimes look like these days.

Google sponsors Madrid's Gay Pride & Owen enjoys a Corozon Bandera Gay (he was not *at* the parade, fyi)

The day we *thought* we were getting Owen's cast off.

…of ducks.

Again, please cue the “You care too much, Rachael. Get a grip.” theme song.

I was walking through Jardines de Retiro, a beautiful park in the middle of Madrid. I happened upon a small lake surrounded by ducks and geese. Not an unusual sight…until I spotted one female duck squaking and quacking as several male ducks held her pinned to the ground. I got closer, and two of the male ducks had their beaks around her neck, holding her tightly to the ground as they, ahem, had their way with her.

I didn’t want to look like the crazy American, by swatting the ducks away…but as more and more Spaniards gathered with looks of horror or sadness on their faces, I thought it was okay to intervene. But even tossing my shopping bag at them and yelling at them to “scram” didn’t stop them. She fought hard…and managed to escape a few times…but they kept getting her back. To the point that she didn’t have many feathers left on her head afterward (the male ducks pulled them out when they were trying to hold her down).

Someone…please…tell me they’re just ducks. And that this is the way it’s been happening for as long as the world has been turning? Por favor?

Things I’m learning…

1) Spanish. Coffee to go is “Cafe con leche para llevar, por favor.” What’s in the croquettes is “Lo que hay en las croquetas?” No seafood is “No mariscos, por favor.” And finally, to get a guy away from you is, “Soy una loca americana que problamente mas de comunicarse con usted acerca de sus sentimentas y le empuja a resentir mi. Mejor seguir el ritma.”

2) I LOVE the coffee here. I prefer coffee treats in America, but the standard single shot of espresso here is perfection!

3) You won’t find a big salad. So stop trying.

But it’s beautiful. It’s hard to deny that there is a purpose in all things when you’re overlooking a city filled with tiled roofs and winding, cobblestone streets and history and architecture and sangria and laughter and ease.

Today the Smith clan is headed to La Isla Magica in Seville…a water/amusement park. I’m thinking about heading to La Museo Baile Flamenco and taking a flamenco class. Wouldn’t that be a riot? And I could put it on my acting resume, as Holly reminded me before leaving for the park. Hmm… My other (favored) option is heading to the Palace here and sitting in the gardens with my book for the afternoon. To be surrounded by ponds of fish and tall palm trees and strutting peacocks and labyrinths of hedges…this isn’t a bad life.

Quietly goofing off in the Alhambra Palace | Granada

Doorway to La Sagrada Familia | Barcelona

Cathedral: Day and Night | Seville

Listening to a Spanish guitarist in Plaza de Cruz | Seville