February 28, 2011
February 27, 2011
Just Do It
Just do it. Saturday morning. Roll out of bed and pull down jeans from a make-shift shelf. Then pull them up and fasten. Lower the brim of the newsboy cap over messy, bed-head hair before even washing face. Remove hat to wash face. Negotiate that un-brushed (um, and unwashed) hair means the face needs a little make-up. Re-negotiate a minute later. Pull brim low again. Reach for keys & bags & cell phone & ipods & notebooks & pens. Too many plurals. Wonder if you should carry a full-size suitcase all the time. Would you ever need to return home? Smile knowingly.
Trip going down the stairs but make it out the front door without bruising. Find a seat alone on the metro facing teenage love and the tracks ahead. Realize you are waiting for a wreck. But not yours. Finally, not yours.
Order two Krispy Kreme donuts, one soft and warm. Walk out unknowingly smearing glaze across your chin. Locate Starbucks and wish it wasn't so corporate or didn't feel so much like home. The tortoise's shell. Try to walk through the wrong door and order a drink with lips above that sugar-glazed chin. Find the perfect window seat and the not so perfect pen. Deep breath. Pen to paper. Just do it. Write.
February 24, 2011
February 22, 2011
Things That Are Overrated
[Nicole sent me an email the other day that would have made me spit milk out my nose had I been drinking any. Hilarious. It pretty much sums up how I will remember my mid-twenties. They are/were nothing like I expected (but perhaps so much better? Maybe? Or not?). As a side note, I have no memory of participating in writing the below list, but I am 100% certain that I did because it mentions matching socks. And without further ado, Nicole's email:]
So I was looking in google docs just to run through our tax outline and found this and died laughing:
Things that are Overrated:
1. a full 8 hrs of sleep
2. showering every day
3. getting dressed in clothes you can wear in public
4. shaving your legs
5. eating healthy food
6. paying bills on time so you don't need to scramble & do it over the phone
7. physical movement
8. doing laundry
9. making your bed
10. eating food with silverware
11. wearing matching socks
12. going to law school
13. grocery shopping
12. taking the bar
13. wearing a bra instead of a bathing suit top (see #8)
14. putting your clean laundry away
15. studying instead of playing with various furry friends
16. eating foods that do not consist solely of sugar
So I was looking in google docs just to run through our tax outline and found this and died laughing:
Things that are Overrated:
1. a full 8 hrs of sleep
2. showering every day
3. getting dressed in clothes you can wear in public
4. shaving your legs
5. eating healthy food
6. paying bills on time so you don't need to scramble & do it over the phone
7. physical movement
8. doing laundry
9. making your bed
10. eating food with silverware
11. wearing matching socks
12. going to law school
13. grocery shopping
12. taking the bar
13. wearing a bra instead of a bathing suit top (see #8)
14. putting your clean laundry away
15. studying instead of playing with various furry friends
16. eating foods that do not consist solely of sugar
February 16, 2011
February 14, 2011
A Backwards Glance At The Crossroads
We left almost every day during the lunch hour. Some days we would actually pick up soup, cookies, coffee from the tiny organic store downtown before driving to the next town to pick up the office mail. The window always cracked slightly, even on the days our doors froze shut, and usually Melissa Ferrick sang on repeat. The drive took 30 minutes, slightly longer if the cows wandered into the road. Even longer if no one noticed that they had wandered.
Some days, we enjoyed the absence of voices and dove into own own introverted, silent thoughts. A break from a busy office and the kids always in the next room. The kids were the best part of our day, why we were there, but the noontime escape handed us clear heads and open eyes. Some days, we spewed. Immediately. Upon entering the car. Life dissection came at rapid pace as we worked through the Important Things. The windows cracked. Melissa on repeat. Our voices louder than the ones we left.
Five years ago, I would climb into her tissue box car and wonder what our lives would look like in the future. Wonder if the crossroads I saw ahead were really there or just mirages we created knowing we needed changes. Wonder if we had the strength to finally mend or finally break parts of our lives.
That spring, when we could crack the windows a little deeper if we turned the heat a little higher, I would climb into her tissue box car and ask her how to save a life. And she would listen as I unraveled. Untangle the darkness. Braid my strengths together. So I could do it for someone else. Someone else who didn't deserve darkness and needed light. Someone else whose joy could shine so brightly but whose tears drown us all. Someone too young to feel depths of despair. I took hold of her young hand, certain I could not pull her out and certain I would not let go. When my strength drained, I would climb into the tissue box car and she would let me sit and watch the snow melt as we passed by.
Summer finally came as a whirlwind of hope and light. Hard fought and well won. Windows down, bowing to the rush of fresh air, the sun beaming and radiant. We smiled on 'til July. Squinted through the windshield at the crossroads ahead and knew that even if we couldn't see it clearly, we could still navigate the turns.
Five years later, they are both at the crossroads of joy. Perhaps, we all are. States and highways and timezones between us, we share good news. Joyful news. Life altering, life creating, life purpose news. I could not have imagined the wonderful places that we are all in today. Places of strength. Places of determination and gentleness. Places of light and joy.
I didn't have to wonder about the crossroads all those years ago. We had the strength to break and to mend all along. To these women, older and younger than I, at completely different places in life than each other and than I: I am so very, very proud of you.
Some days, we enjoyed the absence of voices and dove into own own introverted, silent thoughts. A break from a busy office and the kids always in the next room. The kids were the best part of our day, why we were there, but the noontime escape handed us clear heads and open eyes. Some days, we spewed. Immediately. Upon entering the car. Life dissection came at rapid pace as we worked through the Important Things. The windows cracked. Melissa on repeat. Our voices louder than the ones we left.
Five years ago, I would climb into her tissue box car and wonder what our lives would look like in the future. Wonder if the crossroads I saw ahead were really there or just mirages we created knowing we needed changes. Wonder if we had the strength to finally mend or finally break parts of our lives.
That spring, when we could crack the windows a little deeper if we turned the heat a little higher, I would climb into her tissue box car and ask her how to save a life. And she would listen as I unraveled. Untangle the darkness. Braid my strengths together. So I could do it for someone else. Someone else who didn't deserve darkness and needed light. Someone else whose joy could shine so brightly but whose tears drown us all. Someone too young to feel depths of despair. I took hold of her young hand, certain I could not pull her out and certain I would not let go. When my strength drained, I would climb into the tissue box car and she would let me sit and watch the snow melt as we passed by.
Summer finally came as a whirlwind of hope and light. Hard fought and well won. Windows down, bowing to the rush of fresh air, the sun beaming and radiant. We smiled on 'til July. Squinted through the windshield at the crossroads ahead and knew that even if we couldn't see it clearly, we could still navigate the turns.
Five years later, they are both at the crossroads of joy. Perhaps, we all are. States and highways and timezones between us, we share good news. Joyful news. Life altering, life creating, life purpose news. I could not have imagined the wonderful places that we are all in today. Places of strength. Places of determination and gentleness. Places of light and joy.
I didn't have to wonder about the crossroads all those years ago. We had the strength to break and to mend all along. To these women, older and younger than I, at completely different places in life than each other and than I: I am so very, very proud of you.
February 10, 2011
I Don't Mind The Cold
She puts on her leg warmers, wraps a scarf around her neck, and asks me how I can stand walking home from the metro each night. "I don't mind the cold," I simply reply.
When the metro doors open, the cold grabs me by the waist and pulls me close. Kisses my cheeks softly. I take the first deep breath slowly but gulp down the next few, one after another. The fresh air is the quickest cure for my seasick stomach and stale commute. The crowd moves as one wave towards the escalator and we ride down toes to heels and shoulder to shoulder. I'm holding my breath and fighting my tired, closing eyes. At the bottom, I search for my metro card and burst through the gates. Find my stride as I hit the tunnel to the parking lot and the cold reaches for my hand. I slip on my mittens before I grab hold.
The violin echos at the other end, against the night sky and glowing lights. Sweet sadness and joy rolled into one and rolled over me. High notes held and running, sparking deep within. They light up my face and slow down my feet. His face is young but his eyes hold an old soul that streams out of his finger tips. I would stay all night, but the cold sweeps back my hair and coaxes me forward.
I lean into it and wait for the rest of the world to disappear into the dark night. When the violin's song fades away, I turn up my ipod and silently serenade the cold. Let my head bop and shoulders sway; I'm filling up the space in my own world.
I remind the cold of our time together in Western New York. How it stole my breath every day but showed me the most pristine, still lake on silent mornings and white capped waves when the wind rushed in. How sub-zero nights make for the brightest moon reflections and soul reflections. Standing on the bank halfway between, always halfway between, the cold embraced every inch of the body and commanded "Stand still. Until you know where you are going." Or on the nights and mornings and afternoons when I had direction, it hurried me along, "Go, go, go."
It tells me now that it is coming with me; I can't leave it behind. I try, as I move through the parking lot and cross over onto the sidewalk, to walk so quickly that it can't keep up. But it stays with me, keeping my pace, nuzzling into my face. I laugh as I stop for the next crosswalk, because I'm out of breath and the cold's still there, my constant companion. Just us, always just us. It has me laughing and my cheeks rosey. "Let's go!" it encourages for the final stretch. The best stretch. Its touch numbs my face but gives my feet their pace, their rhythm. Endorphins erupt and I think I must be glowing because the cold whispers "beautiful" in my ear.
It always carries me the last few steps and puts me down gently on my doorstep. I grapple for my house keys and it squeezes my hand one last time before I open the door and walk through.
"I don't mind the cold," I simply replied.
When the metro doors open, the cold grabs me by the waist and pulls me close. Kisses my cheeks softly. I take the first deep breath slowly but gulp down the next few, one after another. The fresh air is the quickest cure for my seasick stomach and stale commute. The crowd moves as one wave towards the escalator and we ride down toes to heels and shoulder to shoulder. I'm holding my breath and fighting my tired, closing eyes. At the bottom, I search for my metro card and burst through the gates. Find my stride as I hit the tunnel to the parking lot and the cold reaches for my hand. I slip on my mittens before I grab hold.
The violin echos at the other end, against the night sky and glowing lights. Sweet sadness and joy rolled into one and rolled over me. High notes held and running, sparking deep within. They light up my face and slow down my feet. His face is young but his eyes hold an old soul that streams out of his finger tips. I would stay all night, but the cold sweeps back my hair and coaxes me forward.
I lean into it and wait for the rest of the world to disappear into the dark night. When the violin's song fades away, I turn up my ipod and silently serenade the cold. Let my head bop and shoulders sway; I'm filling up the space in my own world.
I remind the cold of our time together in Western New York. How it stole my breath every day but showed me the most pristine, still lake on silent mornings and white capped waves when the wind rushed in. How sub-zero nights make for the brightest moon reflections and soul reflections. Standing on the bank halfway between, always halfway between, the cold embraced every inch of the body and commanded "Stand still. Until you know where you are going." Or on the nights and mornings and afternoons when I had direction, it hurried me along, "Go, go, go."
It tells me now that it is coming with me; I can't leave it behind. I try, as I move through the parking lot and cross over onto the sidewalk, to walk so quickly that it can't keep up. But it stays with me, keeping my pace, nuzzling into my face. I laugh as I stop for the next crosswalk, because I'm out of breath and the cold's still there, my constant companion. Just us, always just us. It has me laughing and my cheeks rosey. "Let's go!" it encourages for the final stretch. The best stretch. Its touch numbs my face but gives my feet their pace, their rhythm. Endorphins erupt and I think I must be glowing because the cold whispers "beautiful" in my ear.
It always carries me the last few steps and puts me down gently on my doorstep. I grapple for my house keys and it squeezes my hand one last time before I open the door and walk through.
"I don't mind the cold," I simply replied.
February 9, 2011
February 7, 2011
From the Department of the Quarterlife Crisis
This post has been a long time coming. In fact, it has been coming for so long that I'm not sure where to begin. I've also preemptively decided to put that "read more" break at the end of... probably this paragraph, because I can only stand to see my rambling for so long as I scroll down the home page. BUT I think this is important(?) rambling, so hang with me for a bit, if you'd like.
February 6, 2011
The Hardest Part About Moving "Far" Away From Home
[Sometimes, there are no words.]
*She's a cockapoo, lab, shih tzu, terrier mix from here.
**(And no, I/we don't live in PA.)
February 3, 2011
V Shapes
I'm tuned into, turned into, two V shapes. From the center, they extend out, ground me, and let me soar.
I've learned the best stance for metro rides home with poles out of arms reach and brief-cased men towering high above: two feet, hips length apart, planted firmly. Bend knees when appropriate. Think of skiing, then ice skating, but try not to laugh out loud, don't wake the sleeping riders. I sport a newsboy cap and tuck my eyes under the brim, hiding bright wonder and sparked curiosity that illuminates the word TOURIST on my forehead. But I'm not. Pull the cap down lower. Learn the timing of the metro's lurches and inconsistencies of the rail. Prepare for the unexpected jolt, the sudden stop. Keep the feet apart, steady, firm, solid. Concentrate on the space where boots meet the floor until the chimes of the open doors melt into notes.
The second V begins in my coat pocket, parts near my heart, and pours itself into my ears. Headphones worn and tired but faithfully devoted. Time wanders. Through years and loves and hopes and tears. My life maze is comforting, because I'm the only one who knows the way. My own secret garden, a labyrinth marked by notes and melodies, saxophones and guitar strings, those raspy and sweet voices. Places I can pause to rest or walls I can scale and admire the view - exhilarated but peaceful. I can reach out and touch distant faces, fall backwards and they catch me, swoop me up and carry me. Pick a flower and place it behind my ear.
The metro stops slowly when you ride it to the end - until it comes to a crashing halt. The scattered passengers collect at the doors, but I take my time before folding up my Vs. Pull my feet up from the floor and tuck away my headphones. Close my hand around my cell phone and step out. Pull my feet from the ground, my head from the clouds, and my brim just a little lower. Duck into the cold night air.
I've learned the best stance for metro rides home with poles out of arms reach and brief-cased men towering high above: two feet, hips length apart, planted firmly. Bend knees when appropriate. Think of skiing, then ice skating, but try not to laugh out loud, don't wake the sleeping riders. I sport a newsboy cap and tuck my eyes under the brim, hiding bright wonder and sparked curiosity that illuminates the word TOURIST on my forehead. But I'm not. Pull the cap down lower. Learn the timing of the metro's lurches and inconsistencies of the rail. Prepare for the unexpected jolt, the sudden stop. Keep the feet apart, steady, firm, solid. Concentrate on the space where boots meet the floor until the chimes of the open doors melt into notes.
The second V begins in my coat pocket, parts near my heart, and pours itself into my ears. Headphones worn and tired but faithfully devoted. Time wanders. Through years and loves and hopes and tears. My life maze is comforting, because I'm the only one who knows the way. My own secret garden, a labyrinth marked by notes and melodies, saxophones and guitar strings, those raspy and sweet voices. Places I can pause to rest or walls I can scale and admire the view - exhilarated but peaceful. I can reach out and touch distant faces, fall backwards and they catch me, swoop me up and carry me. Pick a flower and place it behind my ear.
The metro stops slowly when you ride it to the end - until it comes to a crashing halt. The scattered passengers collect at the doors, but I take my time before folding up my Vs. Pull my feet up from the floor and tuck away my headphones. Close my hand around my cell phone and step out. Pull my feet from the ground, my head from the clouds, and my brim just a little lower. Duck into the cold night air.
February 2, 2011
They Know
She doesn't have to ask what types of music I like. She made half the strewn-about, mix cds in my car and filled my ipod on its third day. He knows my lost bank card most likely sits in the boot on the floor of my closet and orders my favorite type of wine without me even noticing. She knows when "I'm fine" really means I'm upset and I'm doing everything I can to fight it. "I hear it in your voice," she'll say. When I swear like a sailor, they don't even flinch. I know he doesn't approve, but he lets me be and never, ever says "I told you so." They take turns making fun of the ridiculous things I ask at dinner time but let me build xbox cities with them on Saturday afternoons. Ask me if my ass is okay after I slide through the kitchen in socks and land hard outside the bedroom door. Don't question why I'm dancing around the driveway at night.
She knows how much sugar to add to my coffee and which playful nickname infuriates me. He says things he knows I don't want to hear and doesn't let me skirt away from uncomfortable issues. He calls me Bacon after I start cooking it on a nightly basis. We speak in an almost code language of encouragement and determination. She knows my mischievous grin and who kissed me last. Together we wear pearls and then build one-match fires and shower periodically in coin-operated stalls. Eat s'mores for dinner without consulting the other. His fingers always gently find the nape of my neck. She knows she can lift me up at any time and how much effort it takes to flip me upside down - literally and in public. He knows how to let me cry and never gets uncomfortable with it. She'll give me dibs on the last cookie.
I miss my friends. Every single one of them. The way they know me. The way they would shoot milk through their teeth if they heard me described as quiet while taking a gulp. I like to think that they'd have to agree, but then they'd smile to themselves that they get to keep the treasure of my motor mouth and the command "Emily. Breathe." I like to think that they're next to me cringing at the "get to know you" middle school questions we never seem to grow out of: what music do you listen to, what boy do you like, what's the coolest thing you've done lately? I like to think that the things they love the most about me are the exact reasons why it's so difficult to answer those questions. So I give cotton candy answers out loud and leave my friends their treasures. And for myself, the reminder that I do have friends and how well they know me. How well they love me.
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