Two Thousand Ten

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer."
Zora Neale Hurston

Two Thousand Nine answered.
Two Thousand Ten asked.
[thankgoodness.]

Two Thousand Ten began with quiet hope. Held onto that hope to light the way through the winter months. To spark and light the fire. That would slowly build as seasons passed.

I went home. To restart and regroup. To find that fire in spring, snow-capped peaks. Took my breath away. Handed it back. Inspiration. Expiration.

Returned to sort and to organize. To settle into the liminal. And hot summer days. Which bred determination, focus, and authenticity. Days that organized. Days that healed. Days that whispered and days that yelled.

Seasons changed. Held onto the light while the days grew darker. Huddled around that fire, quietly burning still, as temperatures dropped and hope grew into belief.

Standing at the edge. The edge of this year, the edge of a beginning still unseen, the edge of everything. Certain and uncertain.

Two Thousand Ten asked: What comes next?

I believe Two Thousand Eleven will answer.

I Now Believe in (Belated) Christmas Miracles.

(Details to come! Yay!)

Miracle on 34th Street

The wind whips at fifty degrees lower than it did four months ago. I wait for the Acela train with 100% less anxiety than I did six months ago. Everything feels different and my trip has just begun. I slip into the fake leather seats and inhale the quiet, the clicking laptop keyboards, and the occasional buzz of a blackberry. The Quiet Car will live up to its name for the entirety of the trip. I knew enough to bring my laptop and pull it out - I'll be in D.C. in a little over 4 hours.

We cross over into Brooklyn and follow the east side of the Manhatten skyline. The Chrysler building catches my eye first and then the Empire State Building. I look back to the Chrysler building in awe of how tiny it looks compared to its nighttime stature from my brother's balcony. How lucky am I to have the many views to compare? When we pull into Penn station, I'm waiting for the urge to flee the train and run into the streets of NYC. It never comes. I'm content in my seat and looking forward to pulling into Union Station in DC. The Hudson River dulls under the cloud gray cover, and I lose the rest of the trip to the glow of my computer.

Union Station feels like a home away from home. Shadows that haunted the last time I made this trip disappear during this lunch hour. I choose my lunch from the food court area and slide into the corner of Starbucks with ease. My phone rings with people checking in with me - "Yes, I arrived safely, easily." "No, I haven't been outside; I don't know if it's cold here." "No, I'm not as nervous as I thought I would be." And it's true. I have a few waves of anxiety occasionally, but I'm calm and confident overall, surprising myself and feeding that stability. Before I leave for the office, I take a few deep breaths in Starbucks, check my teeth for food, and soak in the feeling of This Is Right.

I walk into and through and out of the interview with the feeling of This Is Right.

When I return to Union Station for the trek home, the 5:00, Friday station looks exactly the way I remember it - packed with black suits lined up for trains home or away. Lines standing still at departure gates and lines flowing through the walkways and lines moving up and down the escalators. I join the fastest moving line at the Acela counter and charge a train ticket home that I can't afford. But I know that it costs less than a four hour wait for the regional train, the imprint of the carpet covered train seats on my face at 2 am, and the loneliness of the arrival train station at 4:30am. I join the Acela departure line just as it begins to move forward, slowly uncoiling. I slip back into the fake leather, gray seat next to a group of European men traveling from DC to NYC. This car is anything but quiet, and my head pounds from Union Station to Penn Station. I'm exhausted.

At Penn Station, I almost turn around to get back on the train. I immediately feel for any traveler new to NYC who arrives first at Penn Station. The black lines of DC have transformed into colorful chaos moving swiftly in every. single. direction. I look up to find the signs that will lead me as far north and east as I can get. The homeless shout too loudly and the national guard members stand too still. The lights blind, my ears ring, and my head pounds. I'm exhausted.

The cold New York air stings. The Penn Station chaos pours onto the sidewalk. I make a calculated decision to avoid Times Square and head east before heading north. I wonder how messy a head explosion would be and pull my coat up over my ears. My heels meeting the pavement echo in my ears, and I keep my head down as I weave through Friday night cheer. Peers dressed up and heading out to a late dinner. Holiday parties ending on street corners after too many glasses of champagne. I'd rather not see any of it. A few blocks later, I run into a wall of tourists, stopped on the sidewalk, staring upward. I follow their gaze.

 I had been in NYC the week before visiting my brother and a close friend. We met for brunch at Macy's, and I rounded the building snapping photos of the Believe theme and winter lights hanging in the sunshine. I never stopped to reflect on what they would look like at night.

They took my breath away. The city fell silent and I kept my eyes upward, glued on them, until I found a spot on the sidewalk where I could feel their light on my face. Believe. I stood there for a few moments, soaking their message in without process or conditions. When I turned to finish the walk to Grand Central, the air felt cool and crisp, the city lights sparkling, the streets quieter with a low hum of holiday spirit. A smile on my face.

I grabbed a Starbucks latte for the train ride home and inhaled it before the train even left the station. The caffeine intake didn't matter; I still dozed off with my face in my hand. The train worker smiled at me softly and told me I looked exhausted. I only smiled. My headache had subsided and the train felt cozy, almost comfy. Almost as though everything, everything, everything was just Right.

Warm Wishes To You

Wishing you peace, hope, love, and joy this season and always.
(card via)

My Friends Have Talent: Part IV

Nicole knit me the coziest, warmest, sweetest coffee mug sweater ever.  I'm pretty much in love with it.  It's perfect not only for coffee but also for when I accidentally heat my apple cider in the microwave for four minutes.  I think it went beyond boil to bake.  Oops.  

Thankgoodness for the mug sweater.

(P.S. It has adorable buttons on the back to fasten it together.  So cute.)

{ Photo of the Day }

, originally uploaded by Emily Kaatherine.

{ Photo of the Day }

, originally uploaded by Emily Kaatherine.

Sitting in D.C. Starbucks waiting for an interview and THIS SONG comes on and even though nothing is promised from this interview I am so, so, so filled with hope.

Life Skills: Decision Making

I arrived a half hour early, and the air in the car has already grown cold.  I'm not surprised; the heater roared, rather than hummed, when I turned it on.  I responded with a few four letter words, because I can't afford to fix it.  It has been a while, but I'm pretty sure heat during a CT winter is pretty important.

Students my age walk around outside my car with worn backpacks and circles under their eyes.  I see my past reflection in their faces.  I recognize their tired determination, and I miss it.

My stomach's in knots and I'm trying fervor-ishly to figure a way out of the situation I am about to put myself in.  I should have said no.

The call came late the night before and demanded a quick response.  I negotiated five minutes to decide and hung up, trying to find a reason to say no.  The laptop browser was open to one of my student loan accounts.  It furrowed its eyebrows and glared at me.  I rationed that I would not get the job - it wasn't a good fit - and dialed the temp agency back  to say yes.  "Sure," I told them, "I'll take the interview."  Sure holds a different certainty than yes.

My shoulder blades feel glued to the back of the car seat - a magnetic force too strong for me.  I pry them away and remove myself from the car.  Feed the meter.  I have the urge to run into the medical library and find the near student or resident, sit down and blurt out, "Tell me everything you are working on and thinking about - I'm interested! I was a law student, so I know how tired you are and how consuming this can be, but I'm so excited for you and I want to know everything!"  (I've clearly spent too much time away from my peer group the past few months.)  Instead, I walk up the stairs and through the office building door.  Prepare my speech about how I can answer phones, file, and schedule meetings.

I sit down to wait.  My whole body feels heavy.  My breathing is shallow.  "I'm sorry; I just don't think this is a good fit for me."  I can't think of anything else.  8:30 AM.  I can see myself, yesterday and all the days before, at home with a cup of coffee, my computer, and a list of jobs to apply for.  The long day ahead.

My voice in the interview drops a few octaves, comes out breathy and light.  Even though I feel the weight of every cell of my body.  I know this voice and what this feeling means: Don't. Don't. Don't. He has kind eyes, a warm demeanor.  He says all the right things.  I say yes.  I should have said no.

***

There is a difference between a good decision that does not turn out the way you hoped and a bad decision.  Sometimes, bad decisions look like good decisions, but they are just bad decisions all wrapped up nicely with a bow.  They usually wear a label: responsible.

I have learned over and over: If it feels like a bad decision, it is one.  Even if it looks like a good one.  Even if it is neat and tidy and wears the name tag that says, "Hi, my name is Responsible."  These types of decisions are still bad decisions.  They make everything worse, even if they seem to promise to make everything better.

I keep learning this (the very hard way) over and over again.  I need to stop getting distracted by the label and start listening to my stomach, my shoulders, my breath, my voice.  "They" say you always have the answers, even when you feel like you don't.  Now, not only do I believe this, I also have to live it.

{ Photo of the Day }

, originally uploaded by Emily Kaatherine.

In Which I Embrace 15

The sun's shining through my windows.  My stomach rolls over before I do.  I spent too much time face down to the toilet bowl during the night.  I roll over slowly, trying not to disturb the ocean in my empty stomach. An uncomfortable contradiction. Slosh. I had the two a.m. luxury of whining to my mom, "I think I'mmmm dyyyyyyiiinnngggg."  She tells me Life Stress is catching up to me.  Not the response I wanted.  At 2 a.m. I make a promise to myself to start doing yoga again.  At 10 a.m. I take the promise back - I still don't feel well, and this definitely isn't stress.

The Portuguese painters are conversing loudly outside my window.  They whistle and laugh, and I find myself smiling.  They're working on a Saturday morning, trying to beat the winter freeze - a race the boss orchestrated.  They've been here for weeks longer than it should ever take to paint a house, and I've become accustom to their language I can't understand, to their company.  I'm sure they've become accustom to my hooded sweatshirts and messy hair, my life unkempt.

Downstairs we have boxes of my (and Brother's) childhood lined up to condense.  A year-long project fit into Saturday mornings and Thursday nights.  She looks up from a pile of my first grade papers and asks how I'm feeling.  "Tea, please," and I sink into the couch.  I can't imagine another place I would want to be when I'm sick.  Even if this sick is only a little sick.  I'm home.

We have other boxes downstairs, too.  And boxes lined up in one of the vacant bedrooms.  These boxes are patiently waiting to move.  We are moving.  Home is moving.  We carefully planned this move, and every step towards this move, last fall.  I came home at the start of summer and unpacked the latest chapter of my life while packing up the decades that came before.  While planning to paint the house, making appointments to re-finish the floors, and looking at new houses.  While I figured out how to return and leave at the same time.

The painters knock on the door while I'm sipping the tea too hot to gulp.  "Painting door. Open," the One Who Knows English tells me.  I light up, "Oh!  Okay!  You're painting the door, and I need to leave it open?"  They nod yes, and I'm thrilled.  I want them to know I like them; I want them to like me.  Our days intertwine and I want them to know that maybe I think of them as almost-friends?  Ifthatisn'tooweird.  The cold wind blows through my pajama pants, and I grab my hat from the front closet.  I'm already freezing.  And my stomach is arguing with my decision move.  "Settle down, you," I'm grumbling as I find my way back to the couch.

I'm not there for long when a car drives up the driveway.  The flooring company has arrived to give an estimate.  I envision an old high school classmate walking through our downstairs evaluating the floors (and everything else), while I'm sitting on the couch wearing my pajamas and a scowl.  An older man walks up the front path at the same time my stomach somersault and chill runs up my back.  I do not want to be sick.  I do not want to be friendly.  I put on the knit hat and pull it down to my eyes.

He walks in and barely looks in my direction.  I know how ridiculous I look sitting on the couch in pink pajama pants and a knit hat.  He doesn't seem phased.  I suddenly want him to look at me and crack a smile.  Or talk to me, too, about moving the furniture before re-finishing the floors.  I want the front door closed and the authority to send the painters home to enjoy the weekend.  I want my stomach to stop churning and to be settling in a place rather than moving out.  If life has to exist in boxes right now, I want it to be in a single box with a pretty bow.

I'm scowling.  On the couch.  In my pajamas.  Under my hat.  I'm positive my maturity is peaking at fifteen, and I'm about pop myself up off the sofa, make a friendly comment - "Haha it's freezing in here, right? Would you like a hat? Haha" - and generally act like an adult, when I realize: I don't have to.  He certainly thinks I'm in the 10-15 range, especially dressed like this, and my mom is handling anything and everything that needs handling.  Including me.  I sink into the couch and let my hat make its way farther down my forehead.  I start to pout, because I'm way too old to be sitting on my mom's couch, complaining about an upset stomach, wearing my pajamas with a hat pulled down to my eyes, worried about where the boxes of my childhood will land, wishing for "adult" approval, watching my life tangle with my mom's, when it finally sinks in: this is the good part.  I don't have a single ounce of responsibility this Saturday afternoon.  It does not matter that I do not feel well.   I do not have to proceed on with my day.  I can sit on the couch and feel terrible.  My mom will even put up with my complaining and take care of me.  Even when I'm just only a little bit sick. This, this is the good part.

Living at home comes with a roller coaster of ups and downs.  Some moments I love it and other moments I hate it.  And some days I think I have more mood swings than I did as a teenager.  I'm learning to let go of the bad and embrace the good - the couch, the pajamas, the hat, and luxury of a bad attitude.  Although, when I tried to sink back into the scowl and the pout and the negativity, surprise-surprise, they had disappeared.

An Update

Hello, friends! 

I'm currently feeling the need to shout from the cliffs, "I'm aaalllliiiiivvvveeee!" to counter act my lacking presence... everywhere.  I accepted a temp position that is Holy Overwhelming Batman.  I don't know how long it is going to last, but I'm working out a plan to keep the rest of my life afloat until this, too, passes.  (The rest of my life = everything that I actually love and value.)  Let's consider this plan effective immediately, because I miss y'all!

XO - Emily

On Missing

Sometimes missing encompasses every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of everyday. Sometimes missing encompasses every face, every sunset, every building, every wind that blows through. Sometimes missing is everything.

[2004]

I watched the snowstorms blow through the NY snow belt on the Weather Channel's radar screen. Kids squealed in the pool below and parents lathered on sunscreen. March had arrived in LA with sunshine and warmer temperatures. Tired of the dreary pilot season and February rains, March seemed to promise all that February had failed to deliver - sunshine, glitz, and glamor.

But I wanted snow. I wanted the last few snowstorms of the season to blow through, leaving us wondering if the reverse-lake-effect would be enough to stop the snow or if we would awake in the morning to the hum of the campus snow blowers. I wanted to wake up to the winter wonderland I left in January, not to the early morning splashes of cannonballs. That spring I missed, with every ray of sun, every purple night sky, every band of snow that moved across the radar screen. I missed until everything hurt and I learned to sit very still.

[2005]

I watched the last fifteen minutes of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition every Sunday night. It always made me cry. In December, I had learned that I could plug my internet cable into my 13 inch television and I would get a few random channels and all of the ABC channels.

Until that year, Sunday nights had been exclusively for homework and the bright lights of the library. Coming home to housemates still awake and the lights on for the last person to collapse into bed. That December my tiny, Vermont apartment could never hold enough light and my Sunday nights felt empty, empty, empty. Over time, I learned to hoist everything and everyone I missed onto my shoulders and relaxed into its weight. It was all with me; I didn't need to put it down. I turned on every light, my itunes, and the television. I cried from 8:45-9:00 every week and then danced around my apartment with my cheeks still damp and my shoulders sore, but my heart a little lighter.

(via)

[February, 2006 -2010]

I watched jewel colored gowns glide down the read carpet against a backdrop of flashing camera bulbs. Award seasons in Los Angeles felt galaxies away from life in Vermont and Maine. The red carpet runs down the center of Hollywood Boulevard and I remember how late we were for work the first day they closed the boulevard to set up the red carpet and bleachers. We groaned in our overstuffed car when the light changed and we barely moved. But the next morning we agreed to take the same route and leaned out the windows with cameras in our hands. After the awards show aired, we took Franklin and neighborhood roads to avoid the traffic. That February we were still taken by L.A. and the fervor of "the good life". We scrambled to file for the agency's top talent agents and tag-teamed the coffee maker to be sure we got it right. Four months would go by too quickly, I didn't want to miss a moment of all the possibility. Time would change my attitude, but in early February of 2004 I felt that I was at the edge of the whole world and my life and all I had to do was reach out and choose - I could have anything I wanted.

The Februaries since have felt quite the opposite. Winter in northern New England brings snow drifts to the window sills and wind that bites the cheeks. Evenings call for mugs of hot chocolate and piles of blankets. Quiet time away from the world, not standing on the edge of it ready to soar. February falls in the middle of Decisions Made and Time Will Tell. When award season rolls around, I always miss the shimmer, glow, potential, and possibility of that February of 2004. It arrives on cue each year and stays for only a few weeks. I turn on the television to watch the dresses and spot the places we went for ice cream. I listen to Ryan Seacrest and LA traffic reports in the mornings and put my old "LA mix" on repeat. I close my eyes at night and think of the LA sun, the boardwalks, beaches, cliffs, and mountains. And I dream, and dream, and dream.

[2009]

I watched shots of the Upper West side each morning on Regis and Kelly. My brother would send me photos of New York in the fall and when I visited, we walked the Brooklyn Bridge under a perfect, blue sky. That fall he would meet my Dad for a Mets game or take the commuter train north to meet my Mom for a day of shopping at the outlets. My friends from college would meet up in Union Square for drinks after work and text me, "Wish you were here."

I was in my last year of grad school in Maine and alone in my program. Work isolated; I was lost in the dark; days and nights rolled into one; I looked up in time to see my world crumble. She came home one November afternoon to my splotchy face and heaving sobs. Nothing worked anymore. I cried so hard she told me not to go to my evening class. She held my hand. I never wanted to let go.

I missed home. Home. It had been a long time since that word weighed so much. I had an odd class schedule and an odd work schedule. I started to go home often and whenever possible. Not quite satisfied with suburban CT, I would take the train into NYC to spend time with my brother and friends. Back in Maine, I choked on my longing to be in New York. I shredded my days against images of my life in the city. I missed and I missed and I missed and it shackled my life in a way I had never felt before.

Until I realized I couldn't miss an experience I had never had. I wasn't wishing to return to a time or place in my past. I was wishing for something in my future. I felt a yearning, but it wasn't for the past, it was for the future. This was an extreme realization for a person who felt like her whole world had collapsed and she had no idea what the future held.

[Today]

I miss Portland, Maine. I miss the brick buildings of the Old Port and the breakfast sandwiches on the West End. I miss the people I consider family and the familiarity of being part of a community, even if I felt like it wasn't the best fit for me. This missing is warm and light. I wear it often, like a favorite coat. It keeps me cozy, comfortable, protected.

I miss the mountains of Vermont, but their strength is also mine and it lies in my memories. I miss LA every February, but I'll always take those weeks to dream and revel in possibility. I miss college, still, but I know what it feels like to belong to a place, to find the perfect fit, and to love every single aspect of your entire life wholeheartedly. And I am certain my life will feel like that again.

Sometimes missing encompasses only every other breath and certain heartbeats. Sometimes missing requires standing still, and other times it requires a release of its boundless energy. Sometimes it arrives on schedule, and sometimes it sneaks in the back door, unexpected. I welcome it now. It brings my past into the present and then moves me forward.

For The Burst

Don't try to put your hand in mine.  My fist is closed; I'm hanging on too tightly.  To handles of hope or thin air.  Or I'm waiting for my nails to leave crescent moons on my palms in a tiny, perfect, red row.  I'll look down and point - I thought I had something there.  Perhaps I did, at one time.  My hand is clenched and I'm afraid to loosen my grip.  Afraid to fall into the dark bellows.  I can't see them, but I'm as certain they exist as my handles of hope.  50/50 probability, perhaps they cancel each other out and I'm just floating with tired, clamped fists.  Don't try to put your hand in mine; I can't let go; I can't hold on.

Don't try to lead me.  My eyes are closed and I refuse to open them.  I can't see you in front of me.  I'm listening to instructions louder than yours.  Their whispers come in spurts, barely audible, but they, and the space in between, drown out your good intentions at any volume.  I'm protecting us.  From saying yes to paths I know are wrong and from saying no to paths I think are right.  The confusion that follows when I don't listen closely enough.  To myself.  You'll feel it, too.  You'll look around and I won't be behind you.  I'll leave you standing alone.  Or worse, I'll stand there in tears and we won't understand why.  Don't try to lead me; I don't know you are there.

I'm waiting.  For the burst.  The explosion.  Potential turned kinetic with a catalyst, it all soars upward and then falls into place.  Where I can stand still in the present, look around and smile.  Stop preparing, creating, craving, starving for this change.  That takes its time getting here.  This place of mine, this space of mine.  To softly place my identity.  To say this is who I am and this is how I choose to grow.  To say I belong here.  I'll put out a welcome mat and hang a wreath on my front door.  I'll slip my hand into yours and ask, "Where shall we go?"

Stylin'

The theme of the week must be style!  I love it.  This pretty awesome award was given to me by the always stylish, Nicole of I Don't Claim To Know Much. 

If I know anything about style, the credit goes to Nicole.  Seriously.  She dressed me for at least the first two years of law school, and one of my favorite activities is watching her get ready for any type of event.  She has a knack for putting the perfect pair of earrings together with an awesome looking top.  She also has fantastic taste in boots.  I don't think I'll ever have her innate sense of this-goes-with-that, but I did learn from her to take a few risks when putting together an outfit and then wear it with a smile.  I think maybe that's the key to a few areas of life?  Maybe?  =)

Nicole also knows that most days I'm in sweatpants and a sweatshirt.  This is bound to happen when you spend too many years in school and then find yourself unemployed (or underemployed) for far too long.  So, to make myself feel more comfortable (which, obviously, I have a habit of doing), I'm going to pretend that this style award is for writing style, because I'm currently in a ripped pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.  And I feel very far from the traditional sense of stylish.  But I'm always thinking about writing style (the ones I love, the ones I wish I could pull off, the ones that fit me best).  So, yay, I'll gladly accept the award under those terms.  ;-)  Thank you, Nicole!

Here's the part I like best, according to the rules...

{ The Rules:

1. Thank the person that gave it to you

2. Share seven facts about yourself

3. Choose seven blogs you love to receive the award, and be sure to let those bloggers know you gave them the award! }

I get to chose seven bloggers to pass the award on to!  Oh, wait... I need to list seven facts about myself first?  Hmm.  Okay.  (We'll just label this post as "The Long One".)

1. I gave twelve inches of my hair to Locks of Love three years ago, and it felt incredible.
2. I just started reading the Harry Potter series and I'm pretty sure I'm hooked.
3. In high school I watched 4 live football games every weekend during the season: the friday night high school game and three rec. games on Sunday (my brother's, my friends' brother's, and the intermediate level that played in between).  I know more about football than I let on...
4. I still have an "old school" phone that doesn't really get internet.  I drool over iphones...
5. I really like the number 23.
6. I tend to fall asleep with my cell phone and computer next to me in bed.
   (Is this why I'm single? Kidding...)
7. I answer to Emily, Em, Emmy, Peach, Emma, Emmy Kate, Emma Lou, Emmerson, and  Hey You.  =)

Okay.  Now my favorite part.  Choosing seven blogs!

(Can I send it back to Nicole & Alivia?  Please?  Please?)

1. The Sequined Blazer -- for obvious, already stated reasons.
2. Nikki of The Grateful Sparrow -- I love, love her Heart-A-Flutter Friday lists.
3. Brooke of 25 and Holding -- Her sense of interior design is incredible.  She always knows how to make a space look welcoming, personal, fun, and comforting.  Even her rooms in college looked amazing! Also, the baby onesies she is designing are so, so adorable.
4. Adam Flaherty of AF Media  -- He has style.  In a guy way.  In the web designer way.  (Seriously, check out his work.)  In the I-want-to-steal-your-hooded-sweatshirts way. 
   
   (and now from the Big Blog category...)
5. Joy of Joy the Baker -- Adorable and edgy, her awesome style shows through in her baking, clothing, accessories, and great personality.
6. Ree from The Pioneer Woman -- She has the best taste in boots ever.  Can't imagine why! ;-)
7. Malie of The Daily Relish -- Her photography exudes style and she created the fabulous Epiphanie Bag.  It fits my favorite concept of style: gorgeous and functional.

That was fun!  I love sharing with you guys!  Thanks for letting me!  

XOXO

My Friend Are Talented: Part III

I don't know if there is a greater joy than seeing the people I love pursuing interests that they love.  I am a huge advocate of the I Love This & I Am Going To Put My Energy And Exuberance Into This Purely Because I Love It mentality.   I love to share what they are doing because they are ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS at what they love.  Amazing how that works out, right?  =) 

My friend, Elizabeth, is no exception.  This gal rocks at so much and she always looks fabulous doing it.  I'm serious; she looks great even in work-out clothing on the treadmill.  And in a suit stepping out of a courtroom.  I don't think I realized how hard it is to look stylish in a suit until I had to wear one on a regular basis.  It's hard.  She makes it look easy. 

And she's helping us make it look easy also.  (Or at least making it easier to try, in my case.  Hooded sweatshirts and jeans still come easiest to me... Baby steps, right?)  She is handing out fantastic, fabulous, oh-I-get-it-now tips at The Sequined Blazer. I'm really excited about this site, because she and the lovely Anna are offering great, down-to-earth advice on how to manage the workweek wardrobe without losing any of your personal style.  A-ma-zing.

Check 'em out over at The Sequined Blazer!

{ Photo of the Day }

, originally uploaded by Emily Kaatherine.

Gratitude

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for:

The comforts of home, new and old.

Family.

Old friends (and new!).  And our warm memories.  

Both of which make my face do something wonderful.

Midnight wishes.

An AMAZING trip, at the PERFECT time, and a brother that made it possible.

The small details of life.

My good health.

Music.  All of it.

 

Breathing space.

Being able to say "This is what I want" and being a step closer to all of it.

My camera. And coffee.

The internet for saying, "Yes, express yourself!"  And for not getting upset with me when I sign up for  a few too many accounts.

A growing belief that magic and perfect timing do exist.

The time you choose to spend here, the wonderful comments you leave, and all the kindness you have given.  

I am grateful for you.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

{ Photo of the Day }

, originally uploaded by Emily Kaatherine.

{ Photo of the Day }

, originally uploaded by Emily Kaatherine.

Back To Square One and That Is Fine [Part One]

The room is crowded and noisy. I don't know a single person, and I'm having a hard time finding my "networking smile." "Put your shoulders down." The silent command surfaces involuntarily. I'm not gentle with myself and my nerves barking orders doesn't help, so I try a different method:

"You are fine."
"This is not a big deal."
"These people are not wearing black robes, ready to grill you with questions the minute you open your mouth."
"You can handle this."
"Take a deep breath."

I'm reciting these impatient mantras, until I finally lose my patience with them. "JUST DO IT." (Nike sponsors my most effective mantra.) I step into the crowded room, put my coat down, say hello to a friendly face I "recognize" via the internet, and quickly saddle up to the nearest single person. Deep sigh of relief. I am now guaranteed not to be standing alone for at least five minutes of this networking event. She's a comfortable conversationalist and gives me time to remember my social skills. They're rusty, but they still work. When our conversation turns towards a natural end, I find the next closest single person and begin again. I breath through awkward pauses and sentences that drift away in the noisy room.

I introduce myself in simplistic terms with open ends. I am not part of this industry; I do not know the language, the hierarchy, the goals. I ask question upon question, trying to convey my genuine interest, hoping my lack of knowledge does not come off as disrespectful. I easily say, "I don't know" when asked even a simple question. I follow it up with an explanation that I am just "developing an interest" and ask a reflective question. I try to pay close attention to the answer, but I'm also stifling awe. I cannot believe how comfortable the phrase, "I don't know" feels after years of professional training to produce an answer (the right answer, even if not correctly paired with the question asked) when asked a question.  I'll realize days later that "I don't know" is the right answer.

Some questions I do have answers to - the ones that don't have to do with the industry or why I am at this industry's networking event. I'm home, after so many years away. The city is large, but I know the streets, landmarks, neighborhoods. I can offer an opinion on this place and that place. I know (it's so recent that it's not even a memory, yet) what it feels like to be "from away" but call the place you're standing home. I ask for opinions on the local places and then all about their other home. I wonder if I'm making friends and if it's appropriate to tell stories of awkward dating experiences. I'm standing up taller, laughing at the appropriate times, and my shoulders are three inches lower than when I walked in. This confidence? It hasn't appeared since 2005.

The networking works its way into speed-networking, the intended structure of the evening. Experts on one side of the table and non-experts on the other - we have three minutes to lean waayy in and try to talk louder than the pair on either side. When the whistle blows (or more accurately, the person to your left gets up), you move into the next chair and start again. Deep breath.

I am clumsy. With my law degree. Try to avoid it. Unsuccessfully. Have to explain. My background. Law and Public Policy BUT. Your experiences? Advice to beginner? I'm not here. For the wrong reasons. I know. The saturated market. I know. No pay. I can't. Quit my day job. TWWEEEEETTH. And it repeats.

Until I sit down four chairs down the line. In front of someone who instantaneously makes me feel comfortable. I tell him that I am new to the publishing industry, and I am just at the beginning of figuring out if it is a place that I might like to build a career. I tell him that I'm just really interested in how he got started and what he likes and dislikes about the industry. He agrees to share, but asks me first about my background. I give him the five-second version that somehow encompasses everything and comes out as smooth as warm butter on hot toast. I'm not even surprised - this conversation feels "meant to be." He tells me about his unconventional background and how publishing went from an alternative career to his own business. I'm trying my best not to spew out all the matches my undergrad experiences have to his academic background, when he asks me about college. So, I spew, but it's organized and conversational. Again, I'm hardly surprised. He says to me, "I understand where you are coming from and why you think publishing might be a good professional fit." I nearly fall off my chair. I don't think I have had somebody in a more "advanced" professional position tell me that they "understand where I am coming from" in the past five years - the entirety of my law and public policy degrees. I'm pretty sure the only reason I don't fall off the chair is because I am actually floating above it.

The whistle blows. The person next to me doesn't move. I'm not surprised - I'm fairly certain I'm not supposed to move yet. He tells me that the best way to see if I am interested in this industry is to talk to people who are offering internships. People like him. My eyes light up. I can't help it. He says that he is looking for interns - unpaid ten hours a week - for the winter and spring. Would I be interested? Yes. He says that often what the industry looks like from the outside isn't really how it works on the inside. "Oh, I know," I tell him. I want to tell him that law isn't Flashdance - it's rough, raw, untanned work. I don't though, because I think I might want this internship. He asks for my email address - he'll email me from his blackberry immediately. I tell him that I actually have a business card. The person to my left gets up, and I fish one out of my purse, which holds my box of 99, now 98, cards (that I had printed the day before from Staples, after putting together an online professional writing portfolio, because, of course, I had to have something on the card other than my name and the titles I decided fit best but stressed about for far, far too long). I hand over my card, shake his hand, and slide into the next seat.

We talk. About MFA's. (More school?!) And appropriate email addresses. And he doesn't. Answer my questions. So I start asking. Follow-up questions. To his insistence. On correct email addresses. And the whistle blows. And I slide to the next chair. And she's talking a mile a minute only pausing to sip her red wine and tells me all about facebook and twitter and blogging and tells me that the only way to get a job in this industry is to promote your social media skills and get 5,000 followers on twitter and 5,000 fans on facebook and then you can have any job in the industry as long as it is related to social media but don'tquityourdayjob. TWEEEETH. I'm left in a chair facing an empty chair. As is the person next to me. So I turn, and say hello. She bombards me with questions. Do you have a book? Do you want a book? When are you going to write a book? No, No, No.  It's a never ending onslaught of questions until I start aiming some at her. Do you have a book? What's it about? What's the publishing process? She answers, but she's nervous, because we don't have an expert.

I'm tired. I'm certain that whatever I came looking for, I found. I politely excuse myself, find my coat, say goodbye to the one I laughed with, and exit the bar. I call my brother to let him know I left early, and he invites me over to watch a movie. I decline even though he's only a few blocks away. We already had dinner together, and my feet hurt from walking around in heels. I had forgotten that walking around a city in these shoes without spawning bloody toes and heels requires at least two weeks of practice. I didn't have band-aids tucked away in my pockets, so I hobble to Grand Central with oozy heels and bloody toes. Grab a coffee and a seat on the south side, facing east. My mind races the entire way home, and I check my email on my cellphone (old school style) at least three times. No new mail.

When I get home, I crawl into bed with my computer. I'm determined to put the finishing touches on my new, online writing portfolio before The-One-Who-Gets-Me finds it via my business card. I turn off the light at 2:30am, and think to myself: Nobody can ever say I didn't try.

[To Be Continued]

Day and Night

Falling asleep at 1:30am after sending panic-induced email to friend. 

Cost: Two hours of sleep.

***

Waking up at 2:30am because the cat was clawing at your feet under the blankets and reading friend's panic-induced email. 

Cost: One hour of sleep.
 

Falling back to sleep and dreaming that late-night, email-writing friend moved back in and baked yogurt and lettuce concoctions. (See? I told you the 1950s would hate me, but I can bake a mean dessert! Haha.)

Cost: Twenty minutes of peaceful sleep and two tangled blankets.

***
 

Knowing that your friends are there for you day and night? 

Priceless.  

Timeless.

Reality, Idealism, and Magic

"The difference between you and I is that you are an idealist while I am a realist."

I am an idealist.
 
This "ohmygod when am I going to find a freakin' job" never-ending phase of my life actually comes right in the middle of "who am I and how did I end up here?" panic. Everything gets tangled up when you are not paying attention. Pay attention to yourself. I knew this once, but lost it over the years - "Be still woman, and know thyself." (-Sarah Ban Breathnach)

I told a friend recently that I don't know what I believe in anymore. Anymore. Implying that I once believed in something, and I lost it along the way.  I started thinking about things I do believe in: bills, dishes, laundry, gravity, physics. Uh, random list, right? (They are things that I am certain do exist.)

I was a Religious Studies minor in college. Translation: I took a few classes on the study of religion, not to be confused with theology. Religion orients a person to the sacred among the profane. Think of it as though you are lost among the trees deep in the forest. You have no idea how to get out of the forest or move around in the forest. You are disoriented. Until you spot one that has a red ribbon wrapped around it. Ah-ha! That is the marker that tells you where you are, which direction you are going in, and where you are headed. The tree with the ribbon is the sacred; the trees around it are the profane. The sacred orients.

There is obviously a lot more to religion than this, and Mircea Eliade would think I butchered this basic explanation, and my Favorite Professor Ever would probably cringe at it, but you get the point. Well, actually, the point is that I may not be looking for the sacred, but I have to stop believing in the profane. I actually listed things I hate (hello, dishes!) or know nothing about (physics!) as things I believe in.

I've been spending some time hanging out with Martha Beck. Have you heard of her? She's pretty awesome and a longstanding, good friend of mine. Well, except that she doesn't know it. She's more of an imaginary-type friend. And by hanging out, I mean reading her book and listening to her speak via mp3s on her website. But anyway... she offers a lot of great, practical life advice - super down to earth and rational ways to live well. That's all great, and if I was making a rational recommendation of her work to you, I'd go into the details. But I'm not. I just wanted to tell you that...

She believes in magic. Well, it's not quite that simple, of course, but she uses the word a lot. Okay, not a lot, but she uses it. And when she does, it makes me happy. It makes me hopeful. She talks very practically about finding/creating/achieving life goals - like, writing a novel. And then she says that magic happens - like when that novel is done and needs a publisher and you have no freakin' clue how to even begin to find one, you will get a flat tire when you're driving to the store one Saturday afternoon. And some random lady will stop to help you. And she, SHE will be a publisher, eventually, YOUR publisher. I love that possibility. So, I decided I'm going to believe in Martha Beck's magic. Because it makes me happy. It makes me hopeful.

(What? It's not that simple to go from believing in dishes and gravity to believing in magic? But isn't gravity kind of a form of magic? How does the center of the earth have the power to pull? Magic! How do dishes keep accumulating? Magic! (Of course!))

I know, I know. I'm still a bit of a skeptic, too. But I'm going to try believing in magic for a while, because I honestly don't think it can hurt. Especially if I implement realistic life steps that come before the magic. Someday, I'll start sorting out what I Believe in, but for now I'm choosing to believe in Martha Beck's magic. Because I think we all need something we can believe in. I certainly do.

"I work hard for idealism IN SPITE OF realities. I don't consider that a negative."

That response came out of my mouth before I even thought about it. Years later, I still stand by it.  I know that life is hard and not fair.  But that doesn't mean there can't be hope and healing and goodness.  I'm pulling those parts of life closer to me and holding on to them a little bit tighter.   

(Also, I don't think it's a coincidence that I spend a lot of my job search time on idealist.org. Just sayin'.)

What do you believe in?

The Hollywood Hills And The Boulevard

We rolled down the windows and rode across Mulholland Drive as though we had the top down. The wind keeping the hair from our faces, and the sun pouring in with the rush of a southern California lifestyle that Hollywood made famous. We drove the curvy rode as anyone would a famous California road, in a red convertible, with the top down, on a sunny day. I rode shotgun next to her ipod, and we danced *shake it like a Polaroid picture* so fiercely that we forgot we were driving a rented Kia that fell closer to pea green than candy apple red.

The sky turned an even more glorious shade of blue as we turned into the church parking lot, and I almost suggested that we skip Easter mass and keep driving. Curiosity for the new and cravings for the old parked the Kia next to the row of Jaguars, Escalades, and Bentleys. She spotted an actor in the parking lot that I couldn’t identify by name or face. Months earlier we would have (did) squeal at celebratory sightings, but parts of L.A. had lost their luster. Now proximity to a famous actor (or not so famous, because I had no idea who he was) held the same thrill as spotting a crush at the college bar. Challenging but attainable. I actually uttered, “We can find him after mass,” and dragged her to the door. I didn’t want to be late. I wanted something normal, old, comforting. The fact that I was seeking this at a Sunday Easter mass seemed absurd to me, but I thought it was worth a shot.

We were steps from the door when I spotted “Kelly Taylor’s” mother, “Jackie”, walking in our direction. Despite the hours of 90210 I watched in middle school and my soul crushing love for Brian Austin Green, I couldn’t place her face at first. When she sat down a few rows in front of us and turned around to look for someone, I finally remembered her as “Jackie Taylor”. “Kelly’s” mother. A “familiar” face from my past. I don’t remember a word from the mass, or the details of the inside of the church, but I do know that my homesickness melted away for that hour. Three hours ahead, my friends and family sat down to Easter dinner, or Sunday afternoon homework, or a midday trip to the campus cafe.

*****
We spent Easter the year before with his family. He grandparents drove the three hours, and we fell asleep in the backseat to the Broadway tunes of Mama Mia. His mom cooked a Saturday dinner, and I inhaled it and asked for seconds. A delicious preview of meals to come, but I collapsed that night into a bed I had already spent nights in and fell asleep between his sister’s stuffed animals.

We were everything and nothing. So I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t going home for Easter until the day before, while I traced the carvings in the table with my finger. In dim lighting I wanted to cup his face in my hand, but we sat with the table between us. So I only looked down and told him seven hours was too far to travel for two days at home. When he asked me to come home with him, I told him that it wasn’t enough notice for his parents. He said that they wouldn’t care. Five weeks before, we showed up at their doorstep at 4am, without notice, after driving all night. We stayed for three days. I knew they wouldn’t mind. Easter morning the Easter Bunny delivered a decorated bag of candy for me. His mom sent me back with left-overs in one hand and her son’s hand in my other.

*****
When the mass ended we filed out of the church into the bright Bel Air sunshine, and I decided not to say anything about “Jackie Taylor” or this Easter or that Easter. She missed also, I knew that. I convinced her that we would never find the actor-I-couldn’t-identify in the crowd, and we climbed back into the Kia. Windows down. Music soft. Until we turned down a canyon drive, and forgot again that we weren’t in a red convertible and how much we missed.

The L.A. sun causes amnesia. I know, because we both already had exchanged plane tickets to fly home early, but on that Sunday morning we forgot every reason that prompted us to end our semester days earlier than planned. She turned up the volume for Outkast and we danced *heeeeyy yyyaaaa* boldly enough to make a red convertible proud.

We turned onto Sunset in our sea foam green Kia, with our windows down and a rhythm to our front-seat dancing. A rhythm to our L.A. life. When I faced the sun and closed my eyes, I could taste the Easter dinner my mom prepared at home, see the faces of friends at school, and feel his hand on the curve of my back, the L.A. sun on my face. For a moment, sitting in that car, the sun healed wounds of time and place. I could be in all places for a solitary moment.

She turned the bass up, and we looked for parking outside Mel’s Diner with the radio blaring *go shawty, it's your birthday* too loudly for 11am on a Sunday morning. Too loudly for Easter brunch. But we were in L.A.! I saw my smile in the side-view mirror and the familiar sight of Mel’s Diner ahead of us. I cranked down my window as far as it could go and thanked the sun. For the next few hours, I stopped wanting to be in all places, and drank up the experience of being in L.A. on an Easter Sunday morning. Sunny and lovely and thrilling.

Yay! Friday!

Oh, thank goodness this week is over.  It was a long one.  Amiright?  But it's pretty much over and I feel like shouting from the rooftops, "It's almost over! Happy Friday!!"*  And I thought I'd share with you a few of the things that made me happy this week. 

My Monday Afternoon Cure:

I should have known then it was going to be a long week, but I still had high hopes! 

Alivia's blog.  When I open her blog, I get the same feelings as when I walk into the homes/rooms/cars of my best friends: warm, welcoming, happy, and the "oh thankgoodness you get it/go through it/love it, too" sigh of relief.  Thankyouverymuch internet - although, I think we'd make great friends in real life, too. 

Speaking of "in real life" - Nicole rocks.  I get to see her soon.  I may or may not be counting down the hours. 

Bee is posting a new design in her etsy shop, and I just love it.  I pretty much love everything Bee does.  In art & in life.

The Stratejoy blog.  If you're looking for honest writing about the important topics in the quarterlife period, you should definitely check it out. (Nikki's posts always resonate with me.)  

Kind of along the same theme, this quote pretty much made my week (which I shared earlier, but I'm sharing again):

“And at the end of the day (my life), I will not be devoid, even if my results are nominal. I will have put energy out there. I will have tried to instill the same values in possible children to continue the fight. People won’t read my name on a tombstone and laugh and point and shout out FOOL’S ERRAND because goddammit I am enjoying myself through the hard work and the failures and the tough nature of the WAY THINGS ARE and at the very least I can count myself as someone who stood on his own feet and cared about people and believed in things and wasn’t some lemming stooge who bought the party line on How Things Work.”

Chris Cantwell

Also, there's a puppy in my house, and puppy kisses are, hands down, the best thing ever.

Hope you guys have a wonderful weekend!

*If your week isn't a M-F type of week, then I'll shout "You're gonna make it! Your Friday will arrive!" too. =)

I tasted desperation today.  It tasted sour and tangy and cold.  It tasted like the plaster mold from the orthodontists office.  I would have liked to have gagged, like I always did in that office.  It would have been a reaction, a rejection, a fight.  Instead I sat with held breath, certain it would not pass, heavy, silent, and still.  Sinking dread and I have no way to stop it.  We all march forward.



#just let this feeling pass.  

My "Now" in Three Quotes

“…[H]e allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them,
but that life obliges them over and over again
to give birth to themselves.”
— Gabriel Garcia Marquez, “Love In The Time Of Cholera”

“Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern."
-- A segment of Mayakovsky, by Frank O’Hara

“And at the end of the day (my life), I will not be devoid, even if my results are nominal. I will have put energy out there. I will have tried to instill the same values in possible children to continue the fight. People won’t read my name on a tombstone and laugh and point and shout out FOOL’S ERRAND because goddammit I am enjoying myself through the hard work and the failures and the tough nature of the WAY THINGS ARE and at the very least I can count myself as someone who stood on his own feet and cared about people and believed in things and wasn’t some lemming stooge who bought the party line on How Things Work.”

- Chris Cantwell

I collect words and images (and sometimes notes) over here. 

Autumn Air

The outside of the RV froze almost every night that September.  I piled on sweatshirts, sweaters, and coats before bed. I pulled the blankets up over my head during the night and woke to the sound of water dripping in the morning. The RV would thaw out when the sun finally rose. Most mornings I couldn't feel my toes or the tip of my nose.

I shared the bathroom in the house with the dogs. I can say with unwavering conviction that I would rather share a bathroom with two guys than 2 dogs. Regardless, I was so grateful for that bathroom and the hot shower. I ran the shower on lukewarm to begin, afraid my toes would go into shock if I stepped into hot water, but also afraid the shaking I experienced from the cold would never stop. I stood in that shower every morning and didn't dare to think about my life in terms any larger than that minute in time. My toes would unfreeze, my shaking would subside, and my day would begin. I did not have the capacity to worry about the fact that I was living in an RV, in my supervisor's driveway, in the middle of the mountains, in Vermont. So I didn't.

My supervisor and her husband didn't realize that the propane in the RV was so low that the heat didn't come on at night. When they realized, they looked at me like I had three heads for not saying anything.  "You must have been cold at night."  I think I laughed, out of embarrassment, and told them I just put on "a few extra blankets" with a shrug. They filled the propane tank and that night the RV didn't freeze. I didn't wake up to the dripping noise of it thawing; I could feel my nose and my toes; and when I stepped into that morning shower, I felt like I had won the lottery.

I actually loved that RV and living in my supervisor's driveway, even if it was only for a month. I never did unpack my things from my CRV (the RV was a temporary solution to a vermin-infested apartment), but it still felt like home. My whole office (all five of us) had cook-outs in the backyard on Saturday evenings. We sat by the fire and roasted marshmallows and watched the sun reflect off the pond then slide down the side of the mountain until it was out of sight. My crazed college days had finally ended, and for a few months my life had a slow peacefulness to it.

I moved into my new apartment during the first week of October, a few weeks before the snow fell. I turned the heat on at night so the pipes didn't freeze. My apartment felt smaller than the RV, but with an upstairs and a downstairs, I knew I couldn't afford to heat it all. So, I closed the heavy wooden door at the top of the steps and lived in the few hundred square feet downstairs. I slept on the futon/couch in hooded sweatshirts and piles of blankets. I woke up to Jack Frost's drawings on my windows. The frosted patterns melted in the sun during the day and I opened the windows into the evening. On Sunday nights, my landlady and her manfriend would light a fire in the outdoor fireplace beyond my backdoor and jazz music would float through the air.

"Through my open window streams the cold October night air and jazz music straight out 1920s Harlem. The scent of burning wood from the fire pit rides the cold air inside, and I can’t imagine closing the window now, so I put on a wool sweater and cozy up to my computer. The streamline white iBook seems out of place in my cabin-esque apartment, but it is as comforting to me as the vanilla candles burning nearby." [October, 2005]

That year it snowed a week before Halloween. (It snowed on almost the same day this year, also.) It snowed the way it normally snows in the Vermont mountain communities - in feet rather than inches. We canceled our after school programs and activated the Snow Phone Chain. Although the storm wouldn't produce enough snow to close the mountain, parents still needed to pick up their children as soon as possible. I could hear the kids in the next room singing Jingle Bells, a week before Halloween. I drove home over snowy roads and watched the snowflakes twirl in my headlights.

The snow must have melted by Halloween because I remember brown leaves gathered along the side of the road. Although, I also remember snow before Thanksgiving and the white ground during those moments when my life expanded from enjoying-this-moment-in-time to what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here. When my toes had been frozen since early September, mid-Novemeber felt like mid-winter.
 
Today I stood outside in a t-shirt, after discarding my sweatshirt. The sun still felt too warm for an October afternoon. I haven't experienced a fall here in nine years, and I had forgotten that fall takes its time here. I have been unexpectedly nostalgic for the falls of Western New York, Vermont, and Maine. Or perhaps expectantly nostalgic, because those were seasons in my life when I knew what the upcoming year held. But today I realized how wonderful the warm air can feel in October and how calming it can feel to not know what this year holds. Unexpected and pleasant.

Hallowed Out and Lit Up

(photo (and ghost!) by Nicole, but bottom right jack-o-lantern by me! )

The temperature drops after dark, after dinner, on the walk back to the library. Chili spice still hot on my breath vaporizes and vanishes. I trip on the mismatched bricks, too busy searching for gum to notice. My toes too numb to care. Turn the corner to see the Cat in the Hat and a toilet paper mummy. I shove my hands into my pockets and remind myself how much I dislike Halloween. Keep my eyes on the law school, my fingers wrapped around the bags of candy, count the pieces through the plastic, one, two, three, four...

Front door locked, back door open, bright lights, and concrete stairs. The table under the clock is always empty. Except for the times I’m always sitting there. They’ll stop by to say hello, as they make their way to the bathroom, the front stairs, the book that we’ll never pick up again but need for this assignment. When it’s quiet, when my nose has stopped running, when my cheeks are rosy but not raw, I pop a found piece of gum and head upstairs. To the quiet corner where I’ll deliver the treat-sized candy and my fears. We’ll murmur quietly even though the floor holds only us and the hum of the heaters blowing lukewarm air. I sit on the floor, against the metal shelf, looking up as he smiles down.  Looking at my shoes as I wonder how much is mine to take. Quietly, I’m breathing in and out. Hallowed out and filled.

***

I skip out of the early round of daylight trick-or-treaters, promising to return for the late-night stragglers. Grab a handful of candy and forget how much I dislike Halloween. The air, my car, and I are all warmer than expected. I keep the heat off and that song on repeat. It plays two and a half times before I’m parking my car in the back of the building, running up the stairs, and tossing my books onto the carrel’s top. Flop into the chair. Get up and move the bucket under the dripping ceiling. Think about using my own carrel rather than theirs. See their smiling faces and mine in photographs taped to the back of the carrel and decide against it. In the next couple of hours I inhale most of my snatched candy, manage to get only three shades of highlighter between my fingers, and nearly lose my appetite by the time he comes down to get me for dinner.

If the frozen smiles of my friends bear a warning, I don’t see it. I shove open the doors on our way down and scowl when he tells me I need more protein. We both know how heavy that door is. I’m stronger than I look - I’m still walking this hallway, aren’t I? I’m still here. Inhaling candy and dinner and him, spitting out the new wedding ring. Sitting across from, next to, in front of... his foot always on the rung of my chair. We’re bickering and he teases and we’re relentless, as I wonder how much I am breaking. I’m carefully within the lines but with abandon. I’m reckless with only that which I can claim as mine, and I leave everything else alone.

Until I’m walking through the dark parking lot, spooked by ghosts of the future, and I lay my head down on the steering wheel, careful not to blow the horn - although I’d like to wrap my arms around it and squeeze. I want to hear the horn blaring, and alerting, and breaking the silence and my smile.

Tears don’t come, so I drive home slowly. Pick out a dragon and a princess on separate streets and pair them together in my head. Fated to be together until I realize it is the prince and the princess who have the destiny. It’s the dragon who breaths the fire. I laugh or scream, I can’t tell which, as “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” clicks back to its beginning.

They’re sitting on the stairs to the driveway in the dark. Drinking pumpkin beer, with a sound system set up - notes and screeches, and ghosts, and chains echoing into the night. Harmonizing with mine. I’m still somewhere in that lost land between tears and laughter, but the night’s still warm and with them I know I am safe. So, I join them on the stairs, my hand in the candy bowl, reeling in the rest of myself from the dark. Counting the pieces of candy through the plastic, one, two, three, four... but I’m gritting my teeth and forcing my breaths in and out, hallowed and full.  Structured, controlled breaths, and perfect posture on the steps, even though I’m bursting and soaring and screaming and weeping in silence. Even though I’m out there somewhere scattered or shattered or whole in the dark.

So I get up and I start to dance. And they let me. Alone in the dark driveway, I’m collecting pieces of myself, scooping and reaching and bending and stretching. Until the hour comes when the street is empty and the kids who never came never will. Until I’m panting, and they gently collect me, and bring me inside. Where I fall into my bed with all of my pieces finally mine again. At least until he and I crash through them together once again - scattered, shattered, and whole. Hallowed out and lit up.

In Which I Write To Sort Things Out (And Really Don't Expect You To Get To The End, Promise)

Sometimes on rainy Wednesday afternoons, the best thing to do is sit on the couch with a cup of coffee and watch a marathon of Sex and the City episodes on dvd. 

It's not that I don't have things I could be doing, perhaps should be doing, but this afternoon I needed a break.  My life has been swimming around inside my head lately, rather than playing itself out in real-time.  I haven't been sleeping well.  I needed to check out for a bit, and the best way I know how is by checking in with my four favorite NYC ladies.  With a cup of coffee, of course.

In Which The Nights Have Their Own Ideas

It begins with an extra toss, an extra turn, and too many sighs.  The clock minutes change too many times before they disappear.  It begins with a dream that feels uncomfortable and ends suddenly against a dawn sky.  Light blue and gray skies mix as I roll over.  I move my hands from over my head and place them under my chin, where they belong.  Drift off again, without tagging those hours as a nightmare.  Forget the minutes, the nightmare, the hands by morning.  Recall the distant memory during the third sip of afternoon coffee and then again that night when those minutes begin to grow. 

It grows into tangled blankets, warm legs, and too many sighs that turn guttural with frustration.  The clock hours change too many times before they disappear.  Denial and acceptance roll into each other as I refuse to press play on a lullaby and begin to panic about tomorrow's productivity and dark circles.  When sleep finally comes, it arrives with jagged nightmares that end with my arms over my head and fists clenched in the dark night.  It takes too long to pull them down, to tuck them under.  It doesn't take long enough to fall back to sleep and back into those hours that I've already tagged as nightmares.  They'll haunt me during that third sip of afternoon coffee.

Too many days later, and too many hours passed, I'll find out that last year's lullabies still soothe.  The same ones I found during those nights I memorized the intersections of the four walls and ceiling.  They fill the darkness and rock me to sleep.  Quiet my mind with their notes.  Quiet my heart to a steady beat.  Notes tumble over my bed, but I'm drifting, falling sound asleep.  They'll dance around me all night and scatter at the sound of my alarm.  If I had turned to them sooner, morning would not come as such an unwelcome surprise, but my afternoon coffee will taste like cream and sugar rather than stale nightmares.

Sleep feels heavy and consuming tonight.  I'll slip in quietly and let it wash over me.  A surrender that brings peace, if not a peaceful surrender.  My body finally disconnected from my mind, and a heart without, without, without.  Quiet, still sleep. The kind that needs a hand placed on the back, on the chest, in front of the nose, just to make sure... disconnected but still here.  So still.  Quiet.  Dangerously safe.

My Friends Are Talented: Part II

Bee opened an Etsy Shop! 

  So cute!  So adorable!  Love this.  (!!!)

Bicycle Baby Onesie by BeeDZigns

#Rambling

 I have weird dreams all the time.  They're not quite as weird as Nicole's, but let's just say that living together enabled very interesting morning coffee conversation. ("So last night, I had this dream, that the bug crawling up the wallpaper was talking to me."  "But wait, you don't have wallpaper!")  I can usually pinpoint the source or meaning of my wacky dreams and re-telling them is just fun.  And of course, there are the teeth falling out and tornado nightmares that I have down to an analytic science.  Don't bother googling them - they all basically mean that I feel as though my life is out of control, which happens pretty often if you're as much of a control freak as I am.  At least when it comes to my own life - I try to leave yours alone.  Haha?  ANYWAY...  I had a dream the other night, and I have no idea how to interpret it.  I thought maybe you guys could give me some help?

So, in this dream, I'm sitting on a bed, holding someone's hand, talking to him about the things you talk about when you have somebody new in your life and he's cute. (Read: I have no idea what we were really talking about, but I think it was a playful conversation. Also, he may not really be new in my life, but this sitting on a bed holding hands together part definitely is.  But I'm choosing to ignore that entirely.  Feel free to follow my lead.) When I looked over at him, he wasn't sitting next to me anymore.   He had detached from his arm at the shoulder and was standing across the room folding a load of white laundry.  I was still holding his hand, which was attached to his arm, which lay next to me, NOT attached to his body.  Let me say this again for full effect: I was sitting on the bed, holding his hand, which was attached to his arm, which he had detached from his body.  Zombie-like.  Just an arm.  Lying next to me.  While he stood across the room folding laundry with the other arm. 

This slightly (yes, really, only slightly) concerned me, so I told him that I wasn't sure if I should consider the detached arm sweet or insulting.  I mean, *of course* he must have really wanted to continue holding my hand if he detached his arm from his body to do so, but I was also mildly upset that he didn't want to sit next to me anymore.  I apparently had no concern over that fact that he was either A) a zombie or B) probably in need of some medical attention for that detached arm. I was just very upset that *gasp* he no longer wanted to sit next to me.  (Looking back, he was definitely a zombie, because, come on, who would want to fold laundry with one arm?  Or fold laundry at all, really.)  ANYWAY... I was really perplexed as to whether detaching from his arm was sweet or insulting, which he tried to address, because he walked over, reattached his arm, looked me in the eyes, kissed me on the cheek, and went back to folding the laundry.  I, apparently upset that this was going to be a g-rated dream, promptly woke up.  Uhhh......?  Interpretations, please!