Leaps and Nets

"I think what I'm really looking for is some stability."

It was an unintentional confession that slipped out between fries and took me by surprise more than him. "Of course," he nodded, "it will come with time. Grad school is really one big leap of faith in which you hope the net appears in the future."

I agreed quickly, but I couldn't help but think of the bumps, scrapes, and bruises I got from the last time I took the leap. The last time when the net wasn't there. Forget bumps, scrapes, and bruises - I have wounds and scars.

But don't we all?

Maybe not from grad school (or law school) but from some time when we took a giant leap of faith and expected the net to be there in the future. And maybe the net wasn't there and maybe we will carry scars with us for the rest of our lives as a result. But maybe those scars don't hurt as much as they once did and we forget about them for longer or maybe we start to think of them as what makes us who we are and maybe even learn to love them a little bit along the way. And maybe we take the leap again.

I took the almost very same leap again. I'm proud of myself for it.

I spent Saturday walking around Brooklyn, exploring neighborhoods, thinking of the condo I want to buy someday. Someday kinda maybe soonish - as in a handful of years from now rather than a handful of decades. It's the same type of daydreaming I used to do five years ago, with thirty on my mind. It unexpectedly and quickly became impossible and that was somewhat heartbreaking.  So I put it aside and I haven't thought of it much in the past few years. But on Saturday those daydreams unexpectedly reemerged and I wondered around new neighborhoods, piecing together a new timeline. A timeline built on faith that this time the net will appear.

It's the faith in the net of which I'm most proud.

Leaping the second time took no more faith than knowing the lack of net didn't kill me the first time, so it probably wouldn't kill me a second time. Leaping the second time meant only putting my faith in my ability to survive. Faith the net will appear means more to me. It means I might not have to do it all on my own. I might actually thrive.

And if I can take this leap again and have faith this net will appear again, then maybe I can start taking a few other leaps of faith and one day believe in those nets again, too.




p.s. "leap and the net will appear" was an old mantra of mine years and years ago. i'm glad it's reappearing again.

Decembers

I got a new planner today. I filled in every date I could remember for this upcoming year. Crisp white pages and black lines. Pen and pencil and highlighter almost-but-not-quite smudged. I haven't used a planner in a few years. While I was thinking of it, I updated my google calendar and deleted old categories: classes, study group, exams, gym. I decided I didn't need them but then thought twice.

 

Yesterday's 5pm coffee; a rambling, panicked email; and finally the meltdown that had been brewing all day. A mini meltdown, but only because she knows how to defuse them - she has years of practice - years of Decembers and Mays. Almost a decade.

 

I have old-time comforts now. I fall into them without noticing. That playlist on repeat, vanilla lattes rather than seasonal specials, three squash soup and corn bread from Whole Foods, that old hooded sweatshirt. The hours of the day blend with the days of the week - I shower at almost midnight only to wash away anxiety and throw my wet hair into a bun. Disheveled.

 

One December, six years ago, I hung holiday decorations, planned thoughtful gifts, made Christmas cookies, wrapped presents, talked with Santa at our holiday party. I spent my evenings with carols and Delilah's everyday miracles. I sent cards that year. That felt like a miracle.

 

I haven't since. Done any of that. Felt any of that.

 

There is peace, though, that comes from my own December traditions and rituals. The coffee, the soup, the nights that consist of only a few hours, the days of marathon writing or studying. Accidental traditions and rituals but nonetheless orienting. A final push before calm and then change. 

 

It came again this year. Unplanned and unexpected. A December closer to anxiety-filled Decembers of the past but also closer to the familiar, the known, the soothing comforts than I have been in months. A soft reminder that these years, these Decembers, strung together built a life. I built a life. This December, that feels like a miracle.

 

I'll over caffienate and undersleep. The cashier at Whole Foods will worry about my blood-shot eyes and incoherent greetings. It has really only been a few days. It will only be a few more. But I've already settled into it, welcomed it back like an old friend stopping by for just a cup of coffee while passing through town. I have to ask, though, will you return again, soon? This time, maybe for good?

 

My planner and I would like to know.

The Journey & The Destination

I measure the differences between giving up and letting go.

What is the difference between giving up and letting go? An exhale of release, a quick glance upward, pursed lips, a gentle nod and then the small smile, a downward gaze and shoulders relax? Or an inhale held while the small knot at the nape of the neck forms and the shoulder blades rise to almost meet? To let go means I’m ready, to give up means I’m not? Does the difference lay in a sense of power? A sense of agency? But what’s in power and what’s in agency? And who are we to claim either? And what happens if we don’t?*

Too often (particularly these past few years), I have locked my eyes on the goal and stumbled along the rocky path, hitting walls and then scaling them or taking the long way around. My sights so far ahead, I can’t see the wall, the rocks, the footprints I’m walking in that don’t quiet match my shoe size, the signs with the small print.

It’s about the journey, not the destination.

Buddhism 101. Or 201, as it was for me. How easily I wrote that sentence that year. How easily I lived that sentence all four of those years. A fluid destination, a fluid goal that took different shapes, but still held the same elements – dreams and hopes and soft realities. A fluid destination I held out of focus – I wanted to pick up each stone, hold its weight in my hand, run my thumb over its smoothness.

I chose those years based on what I loved in those moments. I picked flowers along the path and laid down for hours to watch the moon move across the sky against a backdrop of stars. I trusted, without realization, without effort, that I walked the right path (and it was right, for me) without concern for the corners, crevices, crannies of the goal, then out of focus and amorphous.

I read and wrote and loved and played and built a life every single day with a trust that the future would take care of itself. And it did. Every single detail took care of itself. All those details, I love. I would not change a single one.

Too often, particularly these past few years, I have locked my eyes on the destination and stumbled down the path. Too focused on a career title to pick up a pen in late evening. Too focused on rolling over years from now to the same heartbeat to ask the swelling questions or tell the most important stories.

I make plans. I put in the work. I expect difficulties. I have goals.

I am letting them go. The plans. The goals. The destination.

(Different from giving up. Although, I have a difficult time measuring the difference.)

These days, I want to love the minutes. I want to read and write and love and play and build a life every single day with a trust that the future will take care of itself. I want to love the details.

“Emma, you have to shake it up a bit to really figure out what you want.”

“I know.” It came out as a sigh with vowels. 

The career. The relationship. The financial security. I am going to trust that I will get there. Or even more, I am going to trust that I will crash into each somewhere along the path I have chosen to walk (because each step is full and fulfilling) and I won’t even know if I have arrived at the destination or the destination has walked down that path to arrive in front of me. And it won’t matter.

It’s about the journey, not the destination.

*Written February 20th, 2006, 10:43 pm.

Vowing Small Steps and Big Goals

I am tiny. 

I am 5'1" and always need want ten more pounds on my bones. But. 

I don't often feel tiny.

[Let me clarify: When I look in the mirror with a critical eye, so different from the everyday glance to make sure I am wearing clothes and my shirt is not tucked into my underwear, so different from the intentional time spent re-cognizing my features after a harsh day - yes, I am still here, blue eyes and brown hair - when I look in the mirror with a critical eye, I see tiny. I am tiny. I see me. The height. The weight. My perception matches reality. I say that as a disclaimer, an important disclaimer, but not as the topic. An important topic, but not the topic.]

I don't often feel tiny. The coffee mugs stored on the top shelf of the cabinet means I hop on the counter before drinking my morning coffee. Store bought pants too long means a trip to the tailors. She, and oh so many shes over the years, asks me to open the jar with the stuck lid. A crowded venue means I make my way to the front. I am tiny. But I hardly ever feel tiny.

I curl up into the couch cushions and don't think twice before taking a seat in someone's lap. I launch myself into hugs and lean on him entirely when he's standing behind me. When right moments present themselves, I say yes to piggy-back rides. I adore being tiny. But I don't often feel tiny.

For too many hours this week, I have felt tiny. Small. Insignificant. Weak. Unable to master the hurdles or embrace the strengths, the parts I adore. Unable to reach the goal. It came quick and fast, knocked me off my feet. I'm having trouble standing back up.

This too shall pass. I'll get my feet under me, perhaps as quickly as I lost them. Hopefully as quickly as I lost them. But when I do, I'd like to take a step in another direction. Just a small step, even. That goal is a distance away, but this journey is more important, right? I'll take the step, because I don't often feel tiny. And I don't intend on feeling tiny for very long.

From the Department of Life

Three years ago, I watched fireworks from the front lawn of the U.S. Capitol, blocks away from my summer stint at a youth policy non-profit. They shot through the sky and burst above the Washington monument. Electrified, I held my chin up to the night. Their spider legs reached down for us until they faded into smoke trails and eventually disappeared into the dark sky. We walked home through the humidity and fell into a content sleep to the hum of the air conditioner. 

Two years ago, I sat home alone on their grandmother's old couch surrounded by stacks of blue BarBri books and a borrowed novel. My muscles stiff from trying to hold it together and my eyes strained from black print and gray, penciled-in bubbles. I turned the lights off, the television on, and stretched out across the couch. From states away, I watched the fireworks shoot through the sky and burst above the Washington monument. Then I watched a lightening bug blink on our covered porch, waiting for the rain to let up. It never did. My phone buzzed, "coming from the fireworks & walking by your old place!" I sat up, turned on the light, and reached for the novel.

In an effort to save her life, the main character quit her job as a corporate attorney and, in the last few pages, became a writer.

At 1am, I put the book down and cried. Hard.

I shut myself in the bathroom, because I didn't want my landlady upstairs to hear, and went through half a box of tissues. If I had a flare for the dramatic, I would have climbed into the antique, claw-foot bathtub. Instead, I turned on the sink water, sank to the floor in front of it and didn't move for 45 minutes. 

The book wasn't that good. I wasn't reacting to the book. I was reacting to my life.

life 
–noun
1. the condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.

If only it was that simple.

I started dividing my life into distinct areas sometime during my first semester of law school - professional life, personal life, social life, family life. Which ironic, because that is precisely when I started to dedicated every breath I took to my professional life. At the expense of a personal life, social life, and family life. At the end of three years, I had to take inventory. Family and friends stood by, but I had to find out, how much of me is left?

I began to write again. Slowly, clumsily, terribly. But I wrote anyway. Its loyalty is unfailing; it always rescues me.

I am a professional at the intersection of public policy, advocacy, and positive youth development. I work in the non-profit sector. The term "non-profit" is misleading. There are profits; there are profits we keep. I believe in the work I do. 

The hours in this sector are long. There is too much to do and never enough resources or people to get it all done. The issues are complex and thorny. Shareholder wallets obsolete, this sector has to ask: what serves the greater good? I could eat, breath, and sleep this work. But this is not Life. This is a professional life.

I am so much better at a professional life than Life. But I know what happens when I confuse the two. I will not define myself by my profession. That declaration has become a personal mantra. Still, I often I feel myself slipping.

I have devoured books recently. Work travel gave me permission to spend time reading, and I didn't stop when I arrived back. I have consumed books at a rate my wallet hates, but my personal life loves. I negotiate sleeping hours to read and then to write. I found a book that has been on my list for years at a used book store: On Writing, by Stephen King. The perfect combination and the perfect timing. Recommended years ago, time and time again, but only now can I really appreciate every word, every punctuation mark, every lesson. "Am I a writer? Is that the key to my Life?" loops its way through my thoughts as I turn the pages.

Midway through, Stephen King writes: "Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."

My theory shatters. I will not define myself by my profession holds up better under strict scrutiny. 

I am a professional. I am a writer. I am a friend. I am a family member. And I am so much more. As I move farther away from what once consumed my days (training to be an attorney in the private sector), I feel more like myself. Less often do I have to take inventory, how much of me is left? It's all still there, just buried. Some days I have to dig farther than others to find it. On Saturday afternoons it bubbles up and overflows. I drink it up and my cup runneth over. But on Wednesday mornings, I am parched. I am finding out that Life isn't a balancing act between a professional life and personal life (family life and social life). Rather, I think it's something unto itself that forms at the core. These different "divisions" of life are stirred and mixed and perhaps even baked to form something more than all its ingredient. And from this core, the rest rises. That's the Life I hope to create.

Dismantled Suit, Iron-Worn Pants & Buttons Loose, I Am Here

 virtual tour

The summer interns arrive in droves. They wear crisp suits, fresh faces, and bright eyes. Razor burn along the jaw line and a forgotten dab of shaving cream behind the ear. Toe nails painted with summer colors and tucked under flipflop straps. We tuck our winter toes under the seats; has the season changed already? Our weathered faces point down or out, practiced at processing the sights their bright eyes soak up.

I had bright-eyes, too. Three summers ago, before and before and before... when I could walk to work each morning under the gaze of the Capitol building and watch summer thunderclouds wrap themselves around her dome in the evening. I wore those crisp suits until they melted my skin and wilted in the summer heat. I learned to stand in the entryway of Senate Office Buildings long enough for the sweat to evaporate and the goosebumps to form before replacing the suit jacket. Three summers ago, when I spent mornings standing in line outside the committee room, afternoons with a press-pass in hand, and evenings on conference calls dissecting proposed amendments.

I've rolled my eyes at politicians. You know this, you've seen me. But I've also stood in a church pew holding back an "amen" at grassroots campaigning and in the back of the state legislative library in our almost his-and-her suits, flipping through volumes of this and that and this... searching for nothing and coming up so close. I've sat on the couch in that office across the hall of flags. And with my legs crossed in the third row of the of the committee room.

Three summers ago, I threw my arms around her in the marble-walled bathroom four doors down from the mark-up. We celebrated the passage and our late-night work sessions outside the third stall until those-who-did-this-for-a-living walked in with tiredhappy faces. I took mine, with its wet eyes, for a celebratory milkshake that afternoon.

Three summers ago, before and before and before...

Before I learned that which means nothing to me can rise to mean everything and then settle into nothing again.

I am here again. Miles from the Capitol building, but I am here again. Dismantled suit, iron-worn pants and buttons loose, I am here again. Tired eyes, but I am here again.

All that's glamorous has fallen away.* The marble-faced buildings and the echo of my heels down their never-ending halls, the dark, wood panels of the committee room and spiral staircases, the balcony rocking chairs. The playful smiles and my eye rolls. The I know, I know, I know...

I work through tangled, misguided legislation passed in capitol buildings I've never entered by politicians who's faces I've never known. Slip my feet in and out of flats under my desk and leave them hovering over the green carpet. We adjust the air-conditioning and belly laugh until tears fall from our tired eyes.

I am here again and I am here for the first time and I am here for everything that's not glamorous. I am here for everything that's important.



*With exception, of course. Patience, Emily. Patience.

On Definitions And Fuel

The rush. The wave I ride through days of focused persistence and nights of determination. Important work fuels. Runs through my veins. Steady. Cluttered chaos falls away and I intuitively navigate. Hours melt away and minutes pass unnoticed. Until completed.

When it's time to go, nothing more to do here, solid job, I walk out the door into the night.  The air has a new depth with woven dark and damp pieces I didn't recognize before. The bright street lights force a squint until a yellow halo appears around the head of the man selling newspapers to support the homeless. The escalator doesn't move fast enough on these nights. I'm a few strides short of running and my feet move at a pace faster than my head. I'm still thinking slow and steady, as I stream through the entrance gate and slide into the empty seat in an almost empty car.

That song on repeat. As if I could ever help it. Perhaps I'm swallowed whole, but I already dove in. Let go and let this all wash over me. With my eyes closed I can see clearly and with them open I watch the rain slam sideways against the metro window. I'm already outside with it streaming down my face. Out there somewhere between laughter and tears where it all feels exactly as it should. We're here together. I can feel it all. I know precisely what to do.

The rush will wear off and the wave will deliver me to the shore, where my legs will give way. I'll end up laid out on the sand out of breath. Left wondering. About the dark woven sky and the feel of rain. Everything that I knew, now gone. The clutter returns. And I try, again, to define myself.

Daydreaming & Overalls

I'm not sure what happened, exactly, last week. Technically, I spent a lot of time at work, or at home doing work, didn't sleep very much, and ate a lot of ice cream. When I look back on this past week though, I'm pretty sure I'll remember it as the week when time folded onto itself. It will be the week when 2008 and 2011 occurred back-to-back without the existence of 2009 or 2010. And the week when opportunities I asked for showed up much sooner than I expected. Absurd, right? Also, awesome.

In Which I Write My Future. Or, Is This Too Much To Ask For? [Part I]

The alarm goes off, and it takes me too long to realize that I'm the one who has to turn it off.  The room is cold, but my blankets are warm.  My deepest moments of gratitude always come before wakefulness, when my warm bed holds me without suffocating and I'm in the space between day and night.  A deep breath of gratitude before I take that quick breath and swing my legs over the side of my bed. Inhale.  If I could form a coherent thought, I would note that there was a time when getting up meant walking across my ground level mattresses and stepping off the end into the space between the two walls no wider than my two mattresses.  I would note it and file it away quickly, because early-morning-before-dawn isn't conducive to measuring strides and steps forwards and backwards.  I walk to the shower in the dark and don't open my eyes until I'm standing under the hot water, almost scorching, almost soothing.  Slowly coaxing me into my day. 

Not until the shower clicks off does my day begin.  I don't spend enough time drying off and slip down the hallway on the bottoms of my wet feet.  It's a mad dash to dress before the goosebumps become permanent.  I've learned from piles of discarded outfits to chose the night before and promise myself not to think long enough in the morning to change my mind.  This is not a difficult promise to keep.  My long underwear hugs my damp skin too closely, and I tell myself to slow down, but it's too late - I already have one leg in my pants and an arm in my shirt.  I don't take the time to revel in my secret undergarments, choosing a warm, comfy secret over Victoria's secret, and I know that hours later I'll laugh to myself at the thought of navy long underwear tucked tightly under this business attire.  It's the type of secret that somebody who can always stand to gain ten pounds can safely keep. 

Before my hair is dry, I'll race downstairs and out the door for a shock sentence of cold.  Pull my car out of the garage into the dark and start it, turning the heat dial to high.  Race back inside, tripping over the dog, and feeling badly for not reaching down.  I'll dry my hair and check my make-up, evaluating how well I covered those dark circles - never well enough.  This time I stop to say goodbye to the dog.  We have our morning routine of "lick and dodge" where she does the licking and I dodge her tongue - my face needs all the help it can get; I can't let her lick off my haphazardly applied make-up.  Our time together is never long enough.  I race out the house and down the garage stairs every morning with the fears of falling down the stairs and depleting the ozone with my running car.  Scold myself for a dirty car and hair still semi-wet but promise myself not to get stuck in this mood.  You are always cranky before morning coffee and all that comes next.  Let it pass.

Pull out of the drive way while turning the heat down and the radio on.  Blow a kiss to the garage door closing. So grateful for that garage.  And what is behind it.  I leave fifteen minutes early so I can pop into Starbucks and fill my most recent travel mug with a latte without fear of being late.  Some mornings we chat, some mornings we just smile - 6:15 am is quiet and maybe that is how we like it best.  The first sip is all of the days past and all of the days to come and this moment today.  Zen.  Empty and full.  As it ever was/is/will be.  I drive too quickly between stoplights and pull into the parking space too slowly.  I'll wait for the train in silence, grateful for long underwear and hot lattes.  It isn't until I'm sitting on the train that the fear of being late finally subsides, always unwarranted, but ever-present.  It isn't until then that I can reach for my ipod and the day finally becomes mine. 

My first transfer comes twenty-five minutes later.  They hold the next train for us, and we step across the platform and scan for a seat.  I learned more than a decade ago to sit facing west, on the south side, as close to the window as possible.  The sun coming up over the East River will make my heart race and I will remember that this is almost what love feels like.  Until then, I'll scan my ipod and hit repeat more times than I would like to admit.  Pull out my ipad and cringe.  Try not to look around sheepishly at imagined scorn.  The ipad's new and it lets me keep up-to-date-on internet happenings and stay connected to e.v.e.r.y.o.n.e. and it's perfect because the train doesn't have wifi and verizon doesn't have an iphone service, but every morning I have to brush aside that feeling of you do not have enough to have this.  Brush aside the concern that I function too often in the realm of You Do Not Deserve This and rationalize that I negotiated an ipad for a three hour commute.  One way.  Firmly state, almost out loud, "I have the better end of this deal."  The sun does shine over the East River. 

I'm grateful that Grand Central underground doesn't turn me into a sweaty July mess, but I lose myself to the sea of black suits.  I do nothing more than hope they'll carry me through the chaotic halls and onto the subway where I begin, again, to worry that I will be late.  Where I close my eyes and wait until I'm above ground, covering the last few blocks in winter boots with dress pants tucked tightly around my ankles.  I'll peel off layers when I get to my office.  Change into heeled shoes and remember days when I did Important Work in sneakers, but I'll still look down with a glance at heels tucked under the desk.  Remember that this, too, is Important Work.  Smile quietly.

On Moving and Boxes and Goals

A good friend of mine moved last weekend.  Across a couple of states.  For an entirely new life. 

I talked to her this morning, and she sounded really happy.  The genuine kind of happy that sounds strong and graceful at the same time.  The kind that comes at the new beginnings that follow tough decisions or draining circumstances. 

Oh, and the kind that erases a long haul to a new place.  You know the kind, right?  The kind that begins with  oh my god how did i ever accumulate this much stuff?  that leads into  do i reaaaally need all of this stuff?!  followed by  welp here's where i find out because there is NO WAY it is all going to fit!!  It usually ends with a solid cry, a stream of four letter words, and then some angel swoops in with a kind face and tells you to go wash the bathroom sink for a while, or check to make sure all the windows are still in place, or some other small unnecessary task that gives you an escape or at least a private place to have a mini-meltdown. (Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything.) It always works out fine.  Somehow it all ends up fitting and arrives at the new place in one piece and full of promise. 

Full of promise.  I loved hearing about my friend's new place and new neighborhood.  She's standing at that wonderful place at the very beginning where anything can happen and anything is possible.  She decided to follow her passion and her talent, and it led her across a few states to a place where she can almost reach out and hold onto her goals.  It's that tangible.  If she slips, she can reach out and grab onto her goals.  They'll hold onto her as tightly as she will hold on to them. 

She talked this morning of unpacking boxes, ants, cleaning, and closet space, but it was light, and airy.  Solve-able chitter-chatter dunked in excitement and anticipation.  Contagious excitement and anticipation.  thankgoodness. 

I cried a few days ago at the mere prospect of the emotional and physical stress that comes with packing my entire life into a small space and then taking a leap off a high cliff towards the much anticipated "next chapter".  I have moved so many times, called so many places home (mostly for lack a better word than a sincere feeling), chasing the same goal, that the prospect* of doing it again reduced me to fearful tears.  It's the same goal I'm chasing - I just didn't realize how many chapters I would have to page through before I reached the end of this chase.  Before I actually reached the goal. 

Listening to my friend on the first real day of her "next chapter" sparked something stronger than fear.  It sparked excitement and anticipation for that graceful and strong happiness.  Excitement and anticipation for beginnings full of promise.  These things come with moving, too.  I know this because I have done it so many times before.  I can do this again.  I want to do this again.

My goals are holding on to me tightly.  We are intertwined.  They hold me up when I'm tired, worn down, and stumbling.  Their arms are heavy this summer.  When I got off the phone with my friend, they heaved a large sigh of relief, set me down, and shook out the muscle tension.  We both knew I was ready to carry them for a while.  I can't say that I am feeling strong or graceful.  But I can say that I am one wobbly step closer to happiness. 

Thank you, Bee.

*a possibility, possibility, possibility.  tangible hope for a good fit.  for a next step.  send some good vibes into the universe for me? thanksiloveyou!

This City

I'm faceless here.  I can try to walk into the coffee shop through the wrong door; and forget to cross the street because I'm too busy trying to fix my broken umbrella; and drop a tear or two huddled under the scaffolding during the downpour; and flash nearly half the city because I'm not used to dresses over subway vents; but I don't have to explain it, choke it back, hold it down, laugh it off.  I can release and reset alone, standing in a crowd - an off day in an off time period.  This too shall pass.  And they let me pass, faceless.  I am grateful for anonymity that brings peace and order to my thoughts.

I know this city offers harsh realities.  It rubs abrasively.  The concrete can skin the hands and knees when you fall, and it is hard not to trip here at one time or another.  I know it is impossible to avoid that sting.  I know that sometimes this city leaves you wishing somebody would offer an open hand. But I've found that hand, too.  The warm smile holding a door; the chuckle when I've let the shutter close too many times on the same scene - "you should read your manual!" - he doesn't realize that it's not the camera that isn't quite right, it's that my eye isn't quite right; the wave-on-through because "your bags look heavy!"; the gratitude when I bend down to pick up her son's hat that he tossed aside from the stroller.  I've found that here, too.

I know there are things I still need to learn about this city.  Like how hot and damp the air is at 5am in late July.  That the heat and night sky cling to the early morning and lay themselves out down the streets.  That the streets are almost silent even though taxi cabs still rush by and delivery trucks unload from the sidewalks.  Coffee shops and breakfast places display dark windows or a soft yellow glow from somewhere deep inside, where a single employee puts on the first pot of coffee.  It is hard to find a bottle of water at 5am.  I'm listening for the sound of early morning birds.  It's an instinct I can't suppress, but I'm not expecting to hear a bird chirp.  Instead, I'm listening to the rush of a taxi cab engine and the clank of a delivery truck suspension.  The traffic doesn't drone at 5am the way it does at 5pm.  At 5am each vehicle has its own solo.

I crave the faceless days and prepare for skinned knees.  I appreciate the kind hands and warm gestures, theirs and mine, that take on special meaning when cloaked with anonymity.  I'm walking these concrete sidewalks, next to the droning traffic and the 5am solos.  I'm where I want to be.

In Which I Write Myself The Perfect Job Listing

I spend a lot of time looking and applying for jobs.  Some positions make me feel like all of my hard work will result in a career I love; others feel like a long stretch - a mismatch, but what do I have to lose?  I know I'm not going to find exactly what I am looking for, but a girl can hope, right?  THIS [below] is EXACTLY what I want:

Position Available: Research and Policy Associate (As in, responsible for substantive work with real responsibility.  You will not be asked to babysit the fax machine or to brew coffee for the entire office.  In fact, we don't even have a fax machine.  Who faxes when you can email?)

Job Category: Public Policy, Children and Youth, Juvenile Justice, Advocacy, Writing and Editing

Sector: Nonprofit

Type: Full time (As in, M-F 9-5:30 with only an occasional 60 hour week for which you will be compensated with gratitude, appreciation, and coffee as needed.)

Salary: Commensurate With Education And Experience – Excellent Benefits. (As in, enough salary to pay food, rent, utilities, school loans, that cute dress from Anthropologie, a small emergency fund, and to toy with the idea of having an actual savings account.  In that order. -- As in, a large enough benefits package to include dental insurance AND a 401K.  Yes, we will wait while you squeal with excitement.  Just not too high-pitched, please.)

Location: New York, New York, Occasional Travel to Washington, D.C. (As in, two blocks from Grand Central Station, so if you have to live at home and commute for the first few months to save money, you don't have to spend an extra hour commuting within the city.  Or, when you decide you do want to live in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, your total commute time will be only a half hour.)

Job Description: Research national trends in juvenile justice, positive youth development, youth leadership programs, substance abuse prevention programs, and community-based organizations serving youth.  Write reports, policy briefs, and educational materials on the above topics. Track federal and state legislation related to the above topics.  Advocate for changes and improvements in federal and state legislation.

Required Skills and Abilities:

• J.D.


• Master's in Public Policy and Management


• Experience with Juvenile Justice policy at the state and national levels


• Some direct experience with youth and youth programs


• Strong writing and analytical skills


• Proven interest in improving youth policies


• (Comes in with a smile in the morning because even though the day may promise to be long s/he loves the works s/he does and is invested in every moment of the day.  This includes the mid-afternoon moments when nothing tastes better than a fresh cup of coffee.  Must love coffee.)

How To Apply: Please send cover letter and resume via email. (We will reply with an automated email to acknowledge the time and energy it took to apply for this position.   We will notify you of first round interviews within one week.  Two of the five persons interviewed on the phone will be asked to come in for an in-person interview the following week.  The selected candidate will be notified two days later.  The start date is September 1.  This should give you enough time to de-stress from the fear of perpetual unemployment and allow you to enjoy at least two weeks of summer worry-free.  Enjoy!)

Lost

I spent four years in a city large town city without ever knowing if I was taking the shortest route from point A to point B.  I knew where I was coming from and where I was going and even which road I was on, but I just didn't know if there was a better way, or if I was destined to take another turn that would dump me even farther from where I wanted to be.  (Let's blame this on one-way roads and, uh, well, not getting out enough.  But mostly one-way roads, ok?)  I would get there eventually, hopefully on time.   I spent a lot of those rides on the phone with a friend nearly hysterical with laughter because after YEARS of living in this tiny city I could still end up lost.

I would cringe at the thought of being lost.  My friend, one of those that has known me almost too well for years, usually would ease my fears and remind me that I wasn't really lost.  I knew where I came from, where I was going, where I was at that moment in time, and even how to get where I wanted to be.  I was just anxious because I wasn't sure I was taking the "right" route.  I wasn't sure precisely how long it would take to get there.  (It's a small town city.  The difference would be a matter of a few minutes.)  I was only panicked upset because I felt inadequate in my navigation.  Not because I was actually lost.  I was uncomfortable because I'm used to being spot-on with my inner compass.  (We're talking rural dirt roads and international metropolitan subway spot-on internal compass success.  Or, you know, something close to it.)  Uncertainty in my, uh, talent, and the possibility of being wrong/different/slow spun into the feelings of being lost.

I've been lost a handful of times.  Usually when I'm not sure where my destination is located.  Or when I think I am going one place and then find out that I am actually supposed to be somewhere else.  At least once I have gotten lost when I have had to take an unexpected detour.  (Those orange detour signs are not as helpful as one might think.)   Actually being lost is unsettling, scary, lonely, helpless, and sad.

The metaphor here is that I remind myself everyday that I am not figuratively lost.  My life right now is not the ideal, but I'm not really lost.  I've been lost in life, and it feels the same way it does when I am lost in a car - sad.  I'm not sad right now.  I'm uncertain and anxious and slightly upset but not sad.  I know where I came from and where I am headed.  I know that I'm a path to get to where I want to be. (I know where I want to be, doesn't that count for something?  Doesn't that count for a lot?)  I can look around and see exactly where I am on my journey.  I'm just not sure that I took the fastest route or the "right" route. I'm worried that I'm going to get there too late.  (Honestly, I don't even know what "too late" is, but I'm constantly worried about it.)  I'm questioning the route I chose to take, and I'm uncomfortable with the new uncertainty at my decisions, accustomed to having complete faith in my "inner compass".  I'm feeling in adequate in my navigation because I'm not there yet.  I've come so far, and I know where I am going, but I just want to be there.  Now.

So, for now I'm reminding myself that I'm not lost.  And that I will get there.  I will get there.

Other Plans

I make plans. I list. I organize goals, priorities, action-steps. I always have a five week plan, five month plan, five year plan... ten year plan. I calculate course credits, finances, time. And then I dream... in the recent years it is in the form of craigslist.org apartments, realtor.com properties, google maps of cities, potential weekend activities and evening events. My ten year dreams usually include furniture, travel, financial investments, clothing...

At fifteen, my ten year plan included an office with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and a desk with student midterm papers dispersed among my own research.
At twenty, my five year plan included a gorgeous condo in southern CT and an office with views in Manhattan. A publishing hot-shot, I intended to split my time between the states and London.
At twenty five, I spent most of my time in sweatshirts carrying heavy books, drinking too much coffee, cherishing the time spent with friends, and proudly walking across a stage, diploma in hand.

Sometimes my plans unfold as orchestrated. Often my plans meander and morph as new opportunities emerge. Occasionally I run face first into brick wall. Ouch. Although the brick wall collisions don't occur frequently, I have hit them enough to know that I'll eventually get my breath back. So, I still run full force ahead with plans, knowing that the fork in the path and the brick wall emerge eventually.

In the past year, craigslist and realtor searches have spanned multiple cities, and calculations have accommodated many altered finances and time frames. Five week and five month plans remain in tact, but the one year plans change and fade... The one year plan fades, and the ten year plan becomes abstractly more vivid - a comforting occurrence. The forks in the road, the detours in life, the brick walls - they may change geographical locations, budget restrictions, and short-term time frames, but they do not change goals, priorities, or dreams.

I plan. When life directs me, I readily alter my course, but I plan again. I will always be a planner. My dad constantly tells me, "Emmy, life is what happens while you're making other plans." And I'm okay with that.

State House

[originally written 2008]

2-12-08
Warm, yellow, light wraps its arms around me. Almost gently whispering, encouraging, a distant dream that I crawl towards on scraped hands and knees. Warm, yellow, light raises me to my feet, an arm around my shoulders, it provides support, absorbs my chills and uncertainty. It bounces off the marble floors, as if it pours straight down from the high rise dome. Softly encouraging a path not clearly marked, pointing out how far I have come already. In the warmth and embrace of its arms, I can set aside the doubt and appreciate the grace of this house, the pages bound in maroon, the decades of framed photographs, and picture the rocking chairs on the balcony. Surely wide-eyed, and infatuated with the architecture, the people, the issues, even the coffee in the Styrofoam cup he hands me. Reluctant to depart, but encouraged and uplifted. A loosely connected goal dancing in the distant future. For a moment, I could almost reach out to it, in the warmth of the yellow light.


4-9-08
I find the steps myself this time. The clank of my heels almost familiar, but the Appropriations sign hangs above my head, and I have to spiral up one more flight. A sea of faces, I scan for familiar ones, but I find none, so I take a seat in between. In between the House and the Senate.

This time I don't notice the light of the third floor, until we travel down a floor or two, stopping in the doorway of a darker hallway. A familiar face, and it takes me a little while to place why. A familiar con law issue, and it takes me a minute to remember why. A familiar admin term, and I know why. We pass through the doorway. Upstairs, I now have a friendly face to sit with, a reassurance that I understand more than I think I do, and a place in a conversation about a Bill I had never heard of. Sitting between two attorneys, I am not an attorney. Do I want to sit here as an attorney?

When they depart, I am left to watch my own thoughts run a treadmill race. Division into legislators and onlookers. I am somewhere in between. Lost in a sea of their pilot language, I try to translate with involuntarily squinted eyes. I know the importance of understanding the language, understanding the process, even if I never plan to stand in their place. I do not want to stand where they stand. Do I want to stand beside them - not on the floor, but in theory – helping to shape the conversation?

We leave for lunch, and I willingly sink into the familiar, concaved, red couch and look around. A coffee machine that that leaks water, books filled with rainbow highlights, and a hanger that probably once had a home in the car. Familiarity became an understatement as soon as we passed through the doorway. I wait for a comment about the lack of protein in my lunch, but he lets it pass. We let our conversation wander. To others it may seem like our own pilot language, but this one comes naturally for me, no need to translate. With two people it seems impossible to sit in between, but even when an additional friendly face arrives, I'm not worried about the in between.

At the end of the day, I'm not sure where I belong, but not I'm entirely lost either. At least I can find my way to the stairs.

Untitled

I can't breath. The reflection in the mirror, the eyes staring back at me that usually keep me steady, steady, steady... are held open in panic. I recognize the face, but vacancies stand where softness once called home.

She's in the doorway, evaluating my red-rimmed eyes. She could have moved away, carrying her own stage of grief. But she asked me if I was okay. I had to say yes. I had to breath to speak and breathing equated with okay. So I was okay. Breathing. In and out. Even when it felt like I couldn't. Despite my vacant, red-rimmed eyes. She told me it was okay to cry. I felt the tears slide down, fast and with momentum. Built up sorrow. She told me she would be upstairs if I needed her.

I didn't dry my hair before I crawled onto her bed. Examined the re-arranged furniture and her personal stages of spite and sorrow and healing. I felt safe. With her. My vacant stare now fixed on the television with the softness returning and my rib cage rising and falling.

Summer Rain

I wonder how I will remember this summer.
Will I think of the steady downpour of rain?
Jeans rolled up, collecting sand in the cuff,
Dragged in from the puddles in the parking lot,
Smeared onto the chair in the lecture hall,
Where I sit and swivel and sigh,
A deep sigh.

Will I think of the rain drops pounding the dark window?
As I toss and turn,
Searching for sleep,
Loyally abandoning consciousness,
Only to the betrayal of my unconscious,
Thrashing and gasping with fisted hands,
Not strong enough to fight,
The demons of my night.

Will I think of the steady streams flowing down the glass,
Over my right shoulder, in front of the dark gray sky?
Matching the dark gray circles,
The rows of penciled in bubbles,
Rules and exceptions,
Perfectly laid out in baby blue books.
A test I never wanted to take, for
A dream I never had.

Is that how I will remember this summer?

Promise

I will return here soon(ish). I promise.

Voicemail

Some days (okay, most days) I feel compelled to change my voicemail greeting to something like this:

"Hi, you've reached Emily. If you actually need to get in touch with me please send me an email or text message. Chance are, I won't check my voicemail messages until well past midnight, upon which I will feel the sting of jealousy knowing that you are asleep at that time of night, and refuse to return your call under the guise of "politeness" towards those who have schedules different than mine - as in those of you who do sleep. I will then delete your message, make a mental note to call you back in the morning, and promptly forget. I'm sorry, but it is true. I have a problem admitting that my memory bank is fuller than my voicemail. So in all seriousness, send me an email. And don't judge me if I respond past midnight, just be happy I didn't wake you up with a return phone call. Beeeeep."

Good News, World

I survived today.


That is all.