Honesty and Something More

I practiced smiling at my reflection in the store window before I walked through the doors. It looked strained and felt tight and I worried that it would never feel natural again. The night temperature dropped below seasonable; I assumed I looked ridiculous in a winter jacket on a mid October evening. I walked in that evening and watched the floor numbers rise without caring enough about the tight smile and the unseasonable winter coat and the sense that this evening mattered. I dismissed and dismissed and dismissed.

I knew his face, his stature before the elevator doors opened. His eyes met mine on a warm June night during a rare break in the summer rain. On the outside beer garden deck where I drank a glass of wine ordered by a man who didn't have to ask while I sat with my best and my best and my best and still had it all together. Together but restless. Ready to run, ready to break free. Ready for something else, something more. Before the rain stole the summer, before I learned to turn on the faucet to muffle sobs each afternoon, before I felt the sting of failure and dark nights of lost. Before the tight smile, before the cold October night, his eyes found mine on a June night from across the deck. I turned away and smiled. And sank gently into the warm night air.

I spotted him from across the room when I stepped out of the elevator and he confirmed when he stood up. I dropped my napkin right before or right in the middle or right after introductions. He quickly swiped it up for me and handed it across the table as I took a deep breath and quickly tried to assess whether or not I cared and how tight my smile felt. I didn't have the heart for any of it; I dismissed and dismissed and dismissed.

The minutes and the tightness melted away. I thought of my reflection in the dark window before I walked in the doors. The silhouette and stretched smile. What's really there now, below and below and below? I couldn't answer, so I talked about everything else. Honest with him, but hardly with myself. As shelled as I felt, he put me at ease. Calm and safe, despite and in spite - an admirable feat for that season.

When we looked over my shoulder at the empty room and realized it was time to leave, we made a detour from the elevator on the way down, stopping on a floor straight from a horror movie. I thought about running. Faster and faster down the long hall until we landed in a heap of laughter and hiccups at the end. Instead, I smiled quietly and dismissed the thought, that act of freedom. But the smile stayed, as I drove out of the parking garage that night and slipped quietly into bed.

And I went about my week.

The second night I wanted pull his sweatshirt over my head, still zipped up, and walk down by the pier. I wanted to jump into the water without feeling its chill and dunk myself under and under and under until I could breath again. I wanted to crawl into his car and blast the heat until I fell asleep with my hand over his heart. Instead we went to the quaint place I suggested for drinks and sat at a tiny table and looked everywhere but at each other and sighed and both went home and said that this probably wasn't going to work. I said it out loud and crawled into bed believing in nothing more than black nail polish and the sound of the pouring rain, but he said it directly to me shortly after. And I said, yes, that is fine, and I thought yes, that is fine.

And I got to work breathing life into my own lungs. (It has taken years.)

My junior year of college, a boy called me out on my beliefs not aligning with my heart. At that point in time, no one had navigated my heart better than he and somewhere, somehow he found a key, a door, and a lock that matched. It knocked the wind out of me, the fact that he was right.

Alignment has never been my specialty. (It has been years.)

I have done the work. I have cried the tears and written the words and unearthed the buried parts and healed the cuts and spent the time and asked the hard questions and packed the bags and danced the steps and sang the lyrics and took deep breaths and spoke honestly and honored my values and let go and held on tightly.

I know now.

I believe in hard work. I believe in kindness. I believe in words. I believe in plans and savings accounts. Emergency money in the glove compartment and checking twice to make sure the iron is off. I believe in saying thank you sincerely. I believe in health insurance and car insurance and any kind of insurance, really. I believe in the practical, the rational.

I believe in sunsets over the Pacific ocean. I believe in coffee each morning and in saying goodnight before bed. I believe in holding hands with my friends and writing emails at midnight. Hooded sweatshirts and maple candy. Full moons and wishes on shooting stars. I believe in tears, tears from laughter and tears from sorrow. I believe in the magic of everyday.

How easy it is to believe in the practical, rational, everyday. How easy it is for me to be honest about these beliefs. Honest to you. Honest to me.

After those chilly October nights, our paths crossed again not so long ago. I was surprised, and I got goose-bumps and tongue-tied and I grabbed her hand. Two years later, on a Saturday night with friends turned family, I had an easy smile, a light heart, and a sharp memory. I know now, what is below, and below, and below. And I wished I could have suggested a walk to the pier and a promise not to dive into the water. He would have said no. And I would have said that’s fine. I believe in the rational as much as I believe in the magic of everyday.

I found myself face-to-face with him the other night. In the corner of a dark, abandoned warehouse where he sat on an old, broken chair and I perched on the edge of a torn blue sofa. I believed it too late and inconsequential, but I took a deep breath and emptied honesty into the hopeless space. I started from the beginning and told him everything. And then I told him something more. Without hope, I released, my eyes on his hands until the words stopped and I looked up. His eyes met mine. Full of everything I hadn’t known to hope for.

I woke up.

I woke up uncertain of where I was. Certain I had been floating on a cloud of nirvana and uncertain of anything else. What had been a dream and what had been true? The sky grey, before the sun broke through.

There is something more. I believe in something more. I believe in June nights, when I find myself  smiling to myself and sinking softly into the warm night. I have to start being honest about that, if not with anyone else, then at least with myself. I have to align my heart with my beliefs. I have to be honest that I was not surprised our paths crossed again a few weeks ago. Perhaps that’s rational, perhaps that’s something more. And maybe, I don’t have to decide which.

I believe in more than black nail polish and pouring rain. I believe in the rational, I believe in the magic of everyday, and I believe in something more.

Twenty-Year-Old Logic

I sat on the carpet floor in front of the vanity that held the two sinks on the way to the bathroom in our two-king-sized-bed-one-large-walk-in-closet-attached-bathroom suite. I distinctly remember telling her, "There will be a day when I stop making responsible decisions. I can feel it coming." The central air kicked on and gave me goose bumps.

I held it together that semester the best I could. I made routines and then sought out spontaneity to break them. I burned a vanilla candle every night and curled into bed with my journal. Put Dashboard Confessionals on repeat. "It's colder than it ought to be in March, and I still got a day or two ahead of me till I'll be heading home..." And waited for the night sky to turn purple under the weight of the smog. But I was also the first person to say yes to a late-night trip to the psychic. We climbed into the back of the old BMW and chugged down Melrose until we found a parking space under the pink, florescent sign. Almost mid-night on a Thursday, all six of us piled out of the car.

That semester had a weak structure of broken promises and misconceptions. I learned to grow around them. But its foundation was still uncertainty. I had no idea what the future would hold. I left for L.A. looking for answers that I wouldn't find for years, if ever. “And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.”  But that didn't keep me from trying. Under the light of the candle, under the light of the psychic's sign. I was the first to say yes, but I never went in. My phone rang and I knew that was the best answer I was going to get.

For most of college, my best friend and I had a mantra: "It's not as bad of a decision, if you know that you're making a bad decision." We offered it quietly at 11pm at first, but it gained its momentum until we said it as a matter of fact at noon lunches. While the rest of the table tried to untangle and debate our twenty-year-old logic. We wouldn't debate it. We wouldn't untangle it. We just stuck to it.

Years later, as in sometime in February of 2010, I realized why we hung onto that mantra for so long: it gave us permission to take risks. It gave us permission to identify and act on what we wanted to do rather than what we thought we should do. We made those "bad decisions" on a regular basis in college, and we made then with the unwavering support of one another. Looking back, I realize, they were never bad decisions. They were declarations of true desires; they were the guts it takes to name those desires and act on them; and they were the unconditional support and love to go. after. what. you. truly. want.

That was almost ten years ago.

I have a vanilla candle that I think it's time to light...


 
Dashboard Confessionals, A Plain Morning
Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

Constructed Lives

We pass over the East River on a bridge different than MetroNorth's.  Roll through Brooklyn in the fog.  The buildings peak but the gray swallows the skyline.  The same gray as my suit.  I convince myself that I have not disappeared and wonder why this internal conversation sounds familiar.  When else did I have to convince myself that I have not yet disappeared?  What was I doing then?

As we pull into Penn Station I'm stringing words together but sitting on my hands.  Afraid I will write myself out of my life.  A constructed life, I remind myself.  It waxes and wanes, but you're okay, I coax myself.  My hands still pressed against the fake leather seat.  Willing myself not to get off the train and run into the warm New York rain.  Feel it rush down my face.  Scrunch my nose at the smell of wet sidewalks and the stench of misplaced garbage. I turn up my ipod, take a deep breath, and text a friend - my fingers need something to do.  Dismiss the thought that this must be what a quit smoker feels like after kicking the addiction.  Dismiss the thought that NYC has become an unhealthy addiction.  Call it back because maybe that will keep me in my seat.

A woman with fast blackberry fingers sits down next to me.  I grab my coffee as we lurch out of Penn Station.  Try to figure out if I started holding my breath before or after we left the station.  Scramble for my pen and paper.  Declare myself in bold ink A WRITER to the pages of my moleskin. "Once In A Lifetime" crawls into my headphones, and I can't help but wonder what this moment means for my life.  We cross what I assume to be the mouth of the Hudson, and suddenly this train ride can't be long enough.

"You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here? [...]

You may ask yourself
Am I right?... Am I wrong?  [...]

You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here?" 

[Once In A Lifetime, Talking Heads]

"This Will Probably Rank High (If Not #1) On The List Of The Weirdest Emails You Have Ever Received"

["I worked in the Medical Records Department (HIM Specialist II - aka professional copy machine attendee - ha) during summer breaks from college.  One afternoon, a man came in to sign a release form.  We were busy during that lunch hour, but I remember trying my best to give him my undivided attention and to help him fill out the form.  He came back the next day with a package for me.  (Yes, this was weird behavior.)  My supervisor called hospital security, and they swept it away without a second glance in my direction.  I found out later that afternoon that he had written me a letter and made me a mixed tape. (Do those even exist anymore?)  He said something to the effect of "I really appreciated your kindness and help the other day.  Not often do I run into such simple kindness, and I made you this tape to express my gratitude."  My supervisor was pleased with me, security was freaked out, and I had to wear my badge turned upside down for the rest of the summer.  I never got to see the contents of the package or read the letter. 

The next morning, a hospital administrator called me into her office and asked how I felt about the event.  I told her I felt badly that we live in a world where somebody tries to express gratitude and kindness, and it comes off as dangerous and unstable.  I think it is important to tell a person when s/he has made an impact on you.  I told her that I understand his actions were extreme and improper, but where is the line drawn exactly? She told me that she agreed.  She told me that she, too, thought it is important to acknowledge when people made an impact on you.  She said she thought it is important to take that risk.  

I think of that man more often than expected, and I often wonder if he knows that he inadvertently had an impact on me, also. (Ha! Yeah right, I know.)  Over time, the conversation with the hospital administrator stands out more and the potential-absolute-craziness (the check-into-the-behavioral-health-unit-two-doors-down type of craziness) wears off.  I'm telling you this story, because it is where I am coming from when I write this email: I think it is important to tell a person when s/he has made an impact on you."]

And then I proceed to write an email to a guy who would never expect it coming about how he has no idea but he made an impact on my life.  And then I promptly hit the DELETE button, because I'm pretty sure I wrote THIS SAME MESSAGE to a boy I liked when I was FOURTEEN YEARS OLD (and one at fifteen, and one at sixteen, and some skewed version of this in college).  Only I wrote it MORE THAN TEN YEARS AGO on a college-lined sheet of notebook paper and not in the draft folder of my gmail account.  I have some strange mixture of pride and humiliation that I am still determined to write emails after midnight with the keen desire to say, "HEY, YOU'RE IMPORTANT."  I still have this sneaking suspicion that the recipients needs to hear this.  Like I said - a strange mixture of pride and humiliation.  But I don't want to live in that world where an expression of kindness comes off as dangerous and unstable.  I don't know if rectifying that happens solo in "my own world" by sending a note of kindness, or if rectifying that happens in "the real world" by not sending a note of kindness.  So for now, I'm keeping that email in the trash, and I will consider writing a very short  "heeyyy, what's up?  hope all is going well in your world" email at 2pm tomorrow.  Just to be on the safe side.  I'll probably write "just a hello" in the subject line.  Honestly, I'll probably hit delete on that one too, because what I really want to say is "I THINK YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS AND I DEFINITELY NEED TO SAY THIS: YOU ARE IMPORTANT IN MY LIFE."

Don't worry, I'll go ahead and tag this post "teen angst" immediately...  But seriously - where's the line?

Emile Zola

"i came to live out loud." written in bold next to bright colors splashed across the front. i pack, unpack, display, each time i move, over the years. a greeting card i keep. for myself. "i came to live out loud." it says. i am not loud. i am an introvert. i am an infj. this means i am quiet. and complicated. but i intend to live my life out loud. not with the loudest voice, screaming, screeching, bursting, demanding attention. yours and yours and yours. but i will express who i am. find my voice. to share. perhaps quietly, but still out loud. not kept to myself. living always means changing, growing, encompassing, pruning and blooming. life's circles. "live out loud." change out loud. grow out loud. even when i don't know. even when i am scared. but i am here. and here. so "if you asked me what i came into this world to do, i will tell you: i came to live out loud."

We're Still Our William Smith Life

I still read Cisneros with a pen. Contemplate starting a paper at 11pm with a fresh cup of coffee. Try to catch the moon beams reflecting off the water with my lens. She'll tell me "We don't have to make sense," and I'll sit in her passenger seat listening to that song. Time as only a suggestion and convention only a passing thought.

I still search for the right words and bright colors that soothe. Eat ice cream for dinner. Think of life in terms of circles, journeys and stories. She's still the person I call at 2am while the world sleeps and we never do. Sleep as only a hassle - altering perceptions and dreams - and nights as an extension of life rather than a mimic of death.

I still tape up lists made on white paper with colored magic markers. Write to understand what I know. Crawl into an open lap. She and I escape and return together, flee and face it together. Life as an experience and the passing moments only as opportunities to feel alive.

Thursday Night Drives

dark streets with blinking traffic lights, billy bush's hollywood over the radio, always the perfect companion to my thoughts on my thursday night drive across town. meredith grey's closing statement hanging in the air as i try to fit, compartmentalize, box in, failures and successes in life, love, and learning. vermont memories and l.a. moments collide. so many years later, and they still creep into my thursday night thoughts, along will billy bush's voice and a pop tune not heard in years. on thursday nights the thoughts sprawl out on the dark pavement and dark night in front of me, finally free from the restraints of casebooks, to-do lists, and daily routines. ten minutes, across town, are all i have to watch them in an orchestrated ballet, each move intentional and precise, but with a meaning i can't quite make out yet

New Year of Last Year

Champagne glass full of bubbles from last week's new year, a pair of orange tinted nerf glasses, a boa from halloween... I bounce around the kitchen while she perfectly places the lasagna strips over smears of ricotta cheese. Slippery socks on the smooth kitchen floor, the champagne ignites a twist and a twirl and a dip and drop, bounce, bounce, twist, twirl, twirl. Guitar picks aimlessly at the strum string as I tip the champagne to my mouth. A moment of silence, held, held, held, until a unified explosion of guitar cords, beat, pop, rock, lyrics emerge from the basement. My bounce, twist, twirl, dip now have a beat, a rhythm, a pattern and a head full of champagne bubbles. Lasagna baking the oven, music below my feet, the new year starts on an upbeat with an orange tint and a feathered boa.

January 15th, and I can't wait to see how 2009 finally begins...