Sometimes, it doesn't take that much time for two people to feel as if they've known each other for years; it took a mere two-ish months for my roommate and me. But, as I always say (to myself...), we always underestimate time. When school started, my perception of time was, "Oh, summer's over already" -- and now the new year, the big 2010 itself, is a month and a half away. If we back up I can say, "18 years has passed already?!?!" Though I can never quite figure out why my 2-hour, 50-minute Public Speaking class feels longer every time.

The most beautiful/perplexing thing about human relationships is that even in our lifetimes we cannot get to know all of a person. ALL of him or her. Like 100 percent. There's always another story you've never heard (even though your dad repeats the same one in a slightly different version every year at Thanksgiving), a secret you'll never tell, little thoughts that will never make it out of the comfort of quiet grey matter. (Side note: have you noticed how we always list things in threes? Punchlines are always come third in lists as well. Oh wait, I just looked it up: it's called the rule of three.) I realise it seems like I'm going to talk about how much this sucks, but I think it's great! Part of being lifelong friends with a person is still getting to know each other more...right? Naturally the amount of new things that come up as time passes between yourself and a friend will lessen, but I think that if a sunset can still surprise a person after 80 years of sunsets, a person should be able to do that, too, for pete's sake! Because of this revelation I now use "unfolding" when asked of an adjective to describe myself...though it's actually a verb.

I think that's one way we were created in the image of God. God gets bigger as we grow -- no one can ever know ALL of God and what he can do, and I'm elated that he created us to be the same. I guess I could zoom out even further and say that he created life to be that way. I'm sure good ol' Job could tell you that at the end of his life, he never knew exactly why he went through all the crap he went through -- but he did know God better. And I'm sure Job could tell you now that he's still getting to know him.

So, with my related-but-off-this-specific-topic digressions aside, what am I really trying to say? (I had to pause for a moment there and remember what I was trying to say.)
People (yes, that includes you) are deep. Everyone has stories, and everyone wears time.

Also, I'm really bad at writing strong conclusions.

BUT!!!! You should read this article written by a blind woman concerning beauty.

Familiarity is something we’re all familiar with. Sensory adaptation, for instance, is a real phenomenon that happens every day: given some time we adapt to a constant stimulus and “get used to it.” We stop hearing the clocks ticking in our own homes, the neighborhood dogs barking; stop feeling the distinction between elbow and desk. We get used to things, and then we get tired of them. Those who've live in the sun all their lives think nothing of the clear (as in cloudless) sky and those who live in the Midwest get tired of the rain.

So what’s the secret? How do we make sure we never get used to things, that we ALWAYS see everything we have as if it’s the first time we’ve had them?
That’s a great question…to which I don’t know the answer. I could suggest amnesia, but we’d probably get tired of having that, too. “But we can’t REMEMBER that we had amnesia!!” you say. Well, someone would remind us every day that we had it, and we’d probably get frustrated throughout the day/hour/x-amount-of-time-our-memory-lasts-depending-on-the-severity-the-condition knowing that we can’t remember things. AND getting amnesia usually requires some sort of head trauma. Not pretty. But anyway, we also know that removing ourselves from what we’re used to and being someplace different for a while usually changes our perspective on things. (I won’t suggest removing yourself from what’s familiar as the solution because you obviously can’t do that with everything.)
I'm not exactly sure what I aimed to say when beginning this entry (it started when the phrase "the art of getting used to things" popped into my head) but I'm definitely not going to stop someplace depressing.

With all that being said, I'm thankful for sensory adaptation and the like. Could you imagine how incredibly noisy it would be if we could always involuntarily hear the air blowing through the vent, or how distracting it would be to always feel your arm on the table while writing? I think I would have constant headaches if I constantly smelled all the different scents in my dorm room (coffee, vanilla, laundry, old room).
And I love the surprise of unfamiliarity. I love seeing big cumulus clouds up in the sky (a rather rare occurrence here) with sun rays shining through. I love it waking up to the rain when it returns. It made my day when a friend said "Welcome home!" in passing (I go home on the weekends). I've found that being in the desert only makes His love sweeter.
So I guess the art of getting used to things isn't such a bad thing at all...if it's going to make surprises and spontaneity even better, then I'll live with it -- not that I could help it, anyway.

"If this record of a soul struggle to find God is to be complete it must not omit the story of difficulty and failure. I have not succeeded very well so far. This week, for example, has not been one of the finest in my life, but I resolve not to give up the effort. Yet strain does not seem to do good. At this moment I feel something 'let go' inside, and lo, God is here! It is a heart melting 'here-ness,' a lovely whispering of father to child, and the reason I did not have it before was because I failed to let go."
--Frank Laubach, from Letters by a Modern Mystic