April 29, 2011
April 28, 2011
Tornadoes
Thunderstorms roll through. The hours pass with one storm on the tail of another. The apartment is quiet, filled with only the gentle hum of the air conditioner. Full of stillness, while the thunder cracks and the rain blurs the window view until night falls - lightening flashes through the sky and the bedroom light flickers. A tornado warning threatens to overtake the watch. I hold my breath when the freight trains pass until the horns blow or the rhythm of the rails emerges.
When I'm feeling brave, I turn off the lights and roll up the blind but update the weather channel twitter feed twice as often. I search videos of tornadoes and watch the funnel clouds spring suddenly from dark skies but calm air. Expected and unexpected simultaneously. Uncontrollable. They rip through towns and cities, but from a distance the eye doesn't see the structures crumble. It only observes the lights now dark. The video ends when the real work must begin.
I believe that the soul needs storm and fire and dizziness. But it's the tornadoes that I fear the most.
When I'm feeling brave, I turn off the lights and roll up the blind but update the weather channel twitter feed twice as often. I search videos of tornadoes and watch the funnel clouds spring suddenly from dark skies but calm air. Expected and unexpected simultaneously. Uncontrollable. They rip through towns and cities, but from a distance the eye doesn't see the structures crumble. It only observes the lights now dark. The video ends when the real work must begin.
I believe that the soul needs storm and fire and dizziness. But it's the tornadoes that I fear the most.
April 27, 2011
Wanderlust Wednesday: Venice, Italy
Where would you like to be this Wednesday afternoon?
Photo by MorBCN
Wanderlust Wednesdays inspired by The World We Live In
April 24, 2011
April 22, 2011
April 21, 2011
From the Department of Zen Buddhism
I still have blank, white walls. I curl up on an air-mattress each night and don't own a single piece of furniture. Unless the 13 inch television from Goodwill counts for something other than a lack of commitment. It still isn't connected to our apartment cable, three months later. I hung a scarf above my window until the damp spring air asked for something pink, warm and light around my neck. Now the white horizontal blinds stand out against the off-white walls until I pull them up to watch the moon.
I have a favorite street performer - a sixteen year old violinist - and I know how to almost guarantee myself a seat on the metro ride home. When the tourists ask for directions, I can offer landmarks. I know how many steps I have to climb when the metro escalator stops working. The security guard of my office building knows me by name. "Good morning, Miss Emily." He knows how to say "no" without making me feel silly, when I ask him if he needs anything the times I leave the building mid-day. I know the days my favorite Eastern Market painter is painting on-site by the pants he wears; I can spot them a block away. Color spattered pants means he has a brush in his hand.
I've never been so temporary and so present at the same time.
I'm a walking zen koan, perhaps. In the calm, I reach back to the storm and the fire and the dizziness - not to be confused with chaos. Have I learned to live with both - the calm and the storm? If it's all circles, they'll come back around again and again. But perhaps I'm also learning something more consistent: how to stand present in the temporary. And perhaps I'm cultivating a life sustained by this moment in time.
I have a favorite street performer - a sixteen year old violinist - and I know how to almost guarantee myself a seat on the metro ride home. When the tourists ask for directions, I can offer landmarks. I know how many steps I have to climb when the metro escalator stops working. The security guard of my office building knows me by name. "Good morning, Miss Emily." He knows how to say "no" without making me feel silly, when I ask him if he needs anything the times I leave the building mid-day. I know the days my favorite Eastern Market painter is painting on-site by the pants he wears; I can spot them a block away. Color spattered pants means he has a brush in his hand.
I've never been so temporary and so present at the same time.
I'm a walking zen koan, perhaps. In the calm, I reach back to the storm and the fire and the dizziness - not to be confused with chaos. Have I learned to live with both - the calm and the storm? If it's all circles, they'll come back around again and again. But perhaps I'm also learning something more consistent: how to stand present in the temporary. And perhaps I'm cultivating a life sustained by this moment in time.
April 20, 2011
April 18, 2011
April 15, 2011
April 13, 2011
From the Luggage Department
I purchased luggage this past weekend - a seven piece set at 50% from Kohls. I called my mom, while I stood in front of it. "Do I get it?" "50% off is a hard deal to pass up on something you need." Something I need.
I packed my work bag the last time I hopped a Friday afternoon bus "home" for the weekend. Sacrificed lunch box space for a pair of jeans, two tops, and a t-shirt for bed. The driver tossed my bag under the bus with one hand. I rubbed my shoulder where it sat for only a block. When he handed it back to me, after the city skyline finally lit up the night and I silently declared myself home on a street corner that didn't recognize me, it felt twice as heavy as the bag I handed off to him. We walked the blocks to the commuter train together, my bag and I, both in protest - "I am not made for this."
I purchased the seven piece set. I have trips home. Friends to visit. Work travel on the calendar.
I dragged that suitcase set up the stairs. Stood it up in the corner. A perfect box shape with smooth lines. I glared at it.
It wasn't a backpack. I wanted one of those throw-your-things-into-one-different-
If I reach my arms out, I can touch both walls in my bathroom at the same time. I inspect the ceiling corners of my bedroom, waiting for the cobwebs to appear. The window doesn't open wide enough. The faces on my morning commute mimic roman statutes. I close my eyes and pretend I'm on the L, a subway I've declared fueled by this passion for life. When the freight train rumbles by at night, I jump the third car, climb on top and watch the stars fly across the sky. Awake early in the morning to pretend my coffee tastes just as it did in Galway.
A rectangular suitcase fits well. Accommodates. Keeps things neat and tidy.
But I'm aching for a backpack.
I packed my work bag the last time I hopped a Friday afternoon bus "home" for the weekend. Sacrificed lunch box space for a pair of jeans, two tops, and a t-shirt for bed. The driver tossed my bag under the bus with one hand. I rubbed my shoulder where it sat for only a block. When he handed it back to me, after the city skyline finally lit up the night and I silently declared myself home on a street corner that didn't recognize me, it felt twice as heavy as the bag I handed off to him. We walked the blocks to the commuter train together, my bag and I, both in protest - "I am not made for this."
I purchased the seven piece set. I have trips home. Friends to visit. Work travel on the calendar.
I dragged that suitcase set up the stairs. Stood it up in the corner. A perfect box shape with smooth lines. I glared at it.
It wasn't a backpack. I wanted one of those throw-your-things-into-one-
If I reach my arms out, I can touch both walls in my bathroom at the same time. I inspect the ceiling corners of my bedroom, waiting for the cobwebs to appear. The window doesn't open wide enough. The faces on my morning commute mimic roman statutes. I close my eyes and pretend I'm on the L, a subway I've declared fueled by this passion for life. When the freight train rumbles by at night, I jump the third car, climb on top and watch the stars fly across the sky. Awake early in the morning to pretend my coffee tastes just as it did in Galway.
A rectangular suitcase fits well. Accommodates. Keeps things neat and tidy.
But I'm aching for a backpack.
April 12, 2011
April 8, 2011
April 7, 2011
April 6, 2011
If There Is A Frantic Race To 30 With A Ring, I'll Be By The Tortoise's Side.
When he asked me where I saw myself in 5 years, I said 3 am eating ice cream, in my own condo, watching the weather channel in the dark. My honesty is independent but I saw his face flicker. "You?" I retorted. He said Saturday morning, at soccer practice with the kids. We are both a few years short on the mortgage and soccer practice, but when the wind wakes me at 4 am, I roll over and check the weather.com radar. The left side of my bed is empty. My Saturday morning rituals - the metro ride, ipod, coffee shop - fill and sustain. Months later, I let him decorate our library with dark wood furniture, while we sat in traffic. Years later, I finally matched our wrinkled hands on a porch swing at sunset, while we sat across from each other at a Barnes and Noble.
I ordered a bottled beer, one I can't even remember the name of now, maybe Miller Lite, and drank it slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice. No such luck. He asked if I always drank Miller Lite. I knew when I didn't feel myself flush and saw my hand waiving in the air, marking my nonchalant answer, "Oh, if I'm driving, yes." I didn't fidget and I had all the best answers, but I kept scanning the room hoping to see another's face. He walked me to my car after I told him I had to finish a paper. On a Saturday night. He asked me out again and I said yes. For my best interest, I said yes. I went home and finished that paper. I fell asleep thinking of U.S. Korean War policy.
I don't say yes anymore. I dart out out of check-out lines and dash to my car. I take the number but never call. I politely say no, thanks, as if asked if I would like a glass of water. "No, thank you."
I know eyes that can halt a spinning room. I know smiles that hold my breath. I know weak-kneed cliches.
Plural. I've looked across tables and thought to myself, "I could fall in love with you."
I've spoken in nonsensical non-sequiturs as an only alternative to introverted this-is-important-muteness but not been able to shift my gaze away. And that gaze has been met and held for hours, days, and years. I've walked in wind-blown, disheveled, hiccuping, nauseous, tear stained, feverish, and exhausted. And I've been scooped up and nestled in. I've sent late-night emails with words that couldn't face the sun and made statements framed by afternoon logic that would bend at just a glance from the moon. And I've had those buried truths sifted from the hours - understood and valued. By more than one.
I always do it. I write the letters, I say the words, I walk the flights of stairs, I drive the miles, I press send. The few times I haven't I regret. The times I have I'll always know.
I say no to invitations these days. I don't need the dinner reservation or the bottle of red wine. Just find my eyes. I'll know.
These days I worry less about worn-in independence and plans that only accommodate one. I know now that 3 am scoops of ice cream and the flicker of the weather channel doesn't mean that I won't return to bed to fall asleep with a finger across his chin. I worry less about my inability to make small-talk and know that some conversations can be held without words. I worry less about tidy placement and clean lines. Dictionary definitions, maps, and watches belong on shelves. Our lives are fluid and run together under the strength of the current. I'm not worried that I won't be swept up again, someday.
I ordered a bottled beer, one I can't even remember the name of now, maybe Miller Lite, and drank it slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice. No such luck. He asked if I always drank Miller Lite. I knew when I didn't feel myself flush and saw my hand waiving in the air, marking my nonchalant answer, "Oh, if I'm driving, yes." I didn't fidget and I had all the best answers, but I kept scanning the room hoping to see another's face. He walked me to my car after I told him I had to finish a paper. On a Saturday night. He asked me out again and I said yes. For my best interest, I said yes. I went home and finished that paper. I fell asleep thinking of U.S. Korean War policy.
I don't say yes anymore. I dart out out of check-out lines and dash to my car. I take the number but never call. I politely say no, thanks, as if asked if I would like a glass of water. "No, thank you."
I know eyes that can halt a spinning room. I know smiles that hold my breath. I know weak-kneed cliches.
Plural. I've looked across tables and thought to myself, "I could fall in love with you."
I've spoken in nonsensical non-sequiturs as an only alternative to introverted this-is-important-muteness but not been able to shift my gaze away. And that gaze has been met and held for hours, days, and years. I've walked in wind-blown, disheveled, hiccuping, nauseous, tear stained, feverish, and exhausted. And I've been scooped up and nestled in. I've sent late-night emails with words that couldn't face the sun and made statements framed by afternoon logic that would bend at just a glance from the moon. And I've had those buried truths sifted from the hours - understood and valued. By more than one.
I always do it. I write the letters, I say the words, I walk the flights of stairs, I drive the miles, I press send. The few times I haven't I regret. The times I have I'll always know.
I say no to invitations these days. I don't need the dinner reservation or the bottle of red wine. Just find my eyes. I'll know.
These days I worry less about worn-in independence and plans that only accommodate one. I know now that 3 am scoops of ice cream and the flicker of the weather channel doesn't mean that I won't return to bed to fall asleep with a finger across his chin. I worry less about my inability to make small-talk and know that some conversations can be held without words. I worry less about tidy placement and clean lines. Dictionary definitions, maps, and watches belong on shelves. Our lives are fluid and run together under the strength of the current. I'm not worried that I won't be swept up again, someday.
April 4, 2011
I've Said It Before...
... and I'll say it again: I am a text-book INFJ. I am always, always amazed at how accurately the INFJ personality descriptions articulate things about myself that I can't put into words. I'm pasting this excerpt here as easy-access for myself (and a solid reminder of why I blog) and in the event that you may want to more about me than I know about myself.
Moments I'd Like To Stand In Now...
30th May, 2006. 10:04 pm.
Today the clouds rolled in. Thick, dark and slow. I left my computer sitting on my desk, climbed onto the porch railing and sat, watching the storm come in. Waiting for the flashes of lightening, listening for the crashes of thunder until I saw darker clouds over my shoulder. So I followed the clouds to a place on the pavement where they passed by overhead and I stood in the rain, watching the storm come in.
The mountain standing beyond the school roof, changing colors as time passes. Darker with the shifting light, until suddenly lighter and lighter quickly, until it disappears into the fog and rain. The clouds overhead are no longer dramatically black and purple but different shades of gray. I am standing in the rain, exactly where I need to be.
For all the times Vermont has reined me in, it has also offered me moments to stand in the rain. Breathing space, without thought, and not needing to explain.
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