Hello from Zombie Nation.
I managed to pack my things, move, and unpack (a little) in the past 48 hours.
I am exhausted.
But I wanted to say hello.
And say that everything is good.
So, so, so good.
XO
July 31, 2011
July 25, 2011
July 24, 2011
Two Bags of Chocolate & Two Boxes of Ice Cream Bars
Tonight at the grocery store, I picked up two bags of Reese peanut butter cup minis and two boxes of strawberry shortcake ice cream bars. I rolled my eyes far too many times than appropriate at the check-out line (which, in my defense, was wayyyy too long of a wait and would have been much shorter if the check-out BOY stopped looking over at me) and I ordered an iced latte (decaf!) on my way out. I am short on patience and none too pleasant to be around. I'll be the first to admit that.
I'm moving. On Sunday. And I have some large work deadlines coming up the next two Fridays. I wanted summer to be about enjoying the late sunsets and popsicles during lazy Saturday afternoons. I should know better than to make plans. Life always has something else in mind.
More important than my punk attitude and stress-induced bad habits is how incredibly grateful I am that, sometimes, life doesn't go the way I planned. I'll say that again. I am so grateful things did not work out the way I planned.
I am moving. On Sunday. Into a house full of people that I already enjoy having in my life. It is not often I can walk into a house full of people and feel as at ease as I did last night. (Yes, they asked me to come over and hang out before I even move; they are that awesome.) Everything I felt after the first time I met them still stands. They make me want to pull on a pair of sweatpants and join them for a movie marathon. Or put on a skirt and head out for a drink. (Which I wish I could have done last night.) My guard comes down easier with them; I can already feel that.
There have only been a few times in the past that I have warmed up to a group of people this quickly. A house on Main Street in college that housed my soon-to-be best friends and, almost ten years later, houses so many of my favorite memories. And a house in the East End of Portland, Maine where I learned to play Apples to Apples and later, when we all moved in together, how to play a few terrible notes on the guitar. And so much more.
I never hung anything on the walls of the place I am in now. I never really settled into it. Most of my things live in a state of permanent "packed". I've slept on an areobed (I'll correct you if you call it an air mattress because I have some fake pride) for the past six months, and I came up with every reason possible (logical and illogical) not to purchase a real bed. I wish I could say I knew (of the psychic talent type) that I would be moving sooner than planned, but really I just knew (of the traditional type) that things here were not great and I might move sooner than expected. Mostly, though, I am stubborn in my independence and I didn't want to need help if I did move.
I'll pack everything up in my CRV on Saturday night and make two trips on Sunday. I moved down here by myself with one car load, so I can certainly move out in two. *fingers crossed* I like to joke that I love my CRV because I can sleep in it if necessary. (Note: I now think twice about who I tell this to and when I say it.) This statement holds stories, but at its core, it really means that my CRV offers me independence by allowing me to be dependent on it. (I'll unpack that statement another day, or, perhaps, just tell you the stories...)
I'm confessing these things - my bad habits, obnoxious attitude, failure to settle, independence taken too far, independence based on dependence - because they are all wrapped up in this utter delight I have for moving to a new place. The people I have warmed up to quickly in the past have taken care of me over the years, have cared about me over the years.
I let them.
And I want to do that again.
July 21, 2011
Wanderlust Wednesday: Weggis, Switzerland
I know, I know, I'm a day late (almost two). But better late than never, right?
This is always the time of year when I start wishing for snow and all the cozy comforts of winter.
I would just love to sit by the fire and look out the window onto this little town.
Maybe with a mug of hot apple cider and a pot of traditional cheese fondue...
Where would you like to be this Wednesday?
July 19, 2011
Five Friendly Faces
"The [redacted] place is wonderful. Perfect even, if there is such a thing. I love, love, love that area. The girls I met last night were great. Kind, down to earth, put together, well spoken... The people tonight were funny. And honest. And asked good questions. And laid back. And I wanted to put on a pair of sweats and watch tv with them and let them make fun of my silly questions."
When I rolled over in this morning's early light and found that what I fell asleep wanting - something so new and unexpected - hadn't faded overnight, I realized that this weekend it took me 665 words describing my past to get to the place in the post where I could barely describe what I wanted in the present.
When I got back last night from looking at another apartment, this one with five friendly faces and time spent getting to know me - rather than showing me which cabinets held the baking pans, I tried to write a friend an email about my evening, about the apartment, about the people. It didn't quite hit my goal of coherent. She's used to this, so I hit send anyway.
She emailed me back this morning, and despite my stream-of-consciousness non-sequitors, she wrote, "I hear where your heart is- and I think you do too! BUT no matter what, whatever choice you make will end up being the right one. I know this." She's right.
Coming back to live in this city, in which I have already (technically) lived, means old expectations, thoughts, and patterns surface. In someways, I am living a dream I had years ago. Rather than living my life right now. My life has changed over the past few years. "Thankgoodness", is my first reaction to that thought. My life needed to change. I needed to change. Now, I need to live that change.
I realized this morning that I am on the verge of making a decision based on things I wanted in the past rather than things I want now. Based on things I needed in the past rather than the things I need now.
The house I saw last night is not as cute as the one on Sunday. The porch needs painting and the lawn is overgrown. "This is the cleanest it has ever been," he told me. The bedroom is red. I won't have my own bathroom.
But the bedroom window opens up to a second story porch and I wonder if lightening bugs live through September down here. I want to make them promise to pull me up on stage to do Karaoke on Saturday nights. I miss the sound of ESPN in the background and she knows Stephen King's On Writing. I confess that I still drink rum and coke and most of the time my dinners consist of frozen meals. I tell them more than I've told anyone about myself in months, maybe years. For so long, it hasn't mattered - the people who know me know me and I didn't need for that circle to get larger. He asked and I answered and they listened. She chimed in, "Yes, us too!" and I smiled and then laughed.
I don't know what decisions I will get to make in the next few days. I am waiting to hear who will let me into their homes and who will let me out. I do know that these days look nothing like I imagined them but if I have the opportunity to turn them into images identical to my dreams from a few years ago, I think I'll pass. At the end of the day, and in the early morning light, I like my life now enough to let go of the past.
"The people tonight were funny. And honest. And asked good questions. And laid back. And I wanted to put on a pair of sweats and watch tv with them and let them make fun of my silly questions."
July 17, 2011
Down These Quaint Streets
I found the neighborhood in an online brochure over three years ago. It had rave reviews, fresh food, local artisan goods, and history. I bookmarked the website and wrote the location on my "To Do This Summer (D.C.)" list in pink marker. Three days later, on a Thursday afternoon, I hopped the metro with a co-worker to visit a high school a few blocks away from the area. We turned right rather than left at the top of the escalator and walked through a fine neighborhood, but I kept glancing over my shoulder. This weekend, I promised myself...
I walked that Saturday morning, from my tiny apartment to the tiny neighborhood a few miles away, because the sun grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me out into the streets and through the parks. I knew I had arrived before I looked up to number the blocks. The streets had become quieter and row houses lined both sides. Tiny gardens met the sidewalk edges and front walks led visitors to front stoops with iron rails, gentle but strong front doors, and brick exteriors, some painted soft, some painted bold.
The chorus of guitars and barbershop voices led me to the neighborhood's heart. They stood in front of the coffee shop that offered my second iced drink of the day. The opposite side of the sidewalk overflowed with vendors, people, colors, and sounds. Dogs navigated around table legs, sun dresses and flip-flops. Once out of earshot of the guitars, I turned my ipod volume up and lost myself in bright necklaces, fresh strawberries, oil painted scenes, ceramic wall hangings, used books... Hours later I found myself at the other side, only a few blocks down, next to a man playing the saxophone under a tree's shade. Jazz music centers me. Then moves me. Halfway through my walk back home, above the notes from my ipod, the saxophone still set my pace.
When I left at the end of the summer and returned to school, I poured myself hot coffee on Sunday mornings and streamed Pandora's avant garde jazz station. I had a small oil painting, purchased from one of the vendors my last weekend in D.C., in the corner of my desk. I spent the beginning of every Sunday looking at apartments and real estate in that D.C. neighborhood. I had plans. To rent and buy and live and work. I had the job and the apartment and the condo picked out. On those Sunday mornings, with the oil painting a hand's reach away, the cup of steaming coffee, the jazz music filling the room, I could slip out of the present and find myself in the future.
I held onto my Sunday morning ritual for almost a year. Until it became clear that despite blood, sweat, and tears, I would not be moving to D.C.
Reset. Maine. Okay. Yes. Friends. Crashing waters and long beaches. Familiar politics, faces, I am in the know, even though I am from away. Until it became clear... falling stocks and rising unemployment became more than a ticker, more than a statistic. We were all struggling. Student loans that can't be sold, returned, foreclosed on, dismissed in bankruptcy. Reset. Connecticut where the rent is obsolete and New York City where pay checks are still issued and I'll figure it out from there. I'll go anywhere from there, Minneapolis, Austin, San Francisco. And in this shuffle I found my heart stood in plain sight all along, in the skyscrapers, tiny apartments, streets I know well, faces I love. Overnight trains to D.C. for interviews but my heart gets off at Penn Station while my head chugs south.
My career landed a job in D.C. and I landed in the suburbs. I learned to love the commute. I learned to love this distance. On weekends, I travel to the tiny neighborhood I love. The rent is so high there I can't even daydream. I've faced reality for so long I can't even hope.
Out here in the suburbs, my living situation has gone from pleasant to absurd to "GET OUT OF THERE NOW" advice from people. I begin to bookmark craigslist ads and scan for apartments I can afford, posted by people who don't seem crazy, people who can put together a coherent sentence.
On a Friday night at 1am, I stumble upon an apartment in that tiny neighborhood with a description that I could have written and rent within my meager price range. I email the next morning and we arrange for me to check it out Sunday evening.
I went this evening.
I won't have any word on whether or not I got it until Wednesday (Thursday the latest), but it is lovely. So very lovely. And I walked out feeling more myself than I have in a very long time.
Fingers crossed for me please?
I walked that Saturday morning, from my tiny apartment to the tiny neighborhood a few miles away, because the sun grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me out into the streets and through the parks. I knew I had arrived before I looked up to number the blocks. The streets had become quieter and row houses lined both sides. Tiny gardens met the sidewalk edges and front walks led visitors to front stoops with iron rails, gentle but strong front doors, and brick exteriors, some painted soft, some painted bold.
The chorus of guitars and barbershop voices led me to the neighborhood's heart. They stood in front of the coffee shop that offered my second iced drink of the day. The opposite side of the sidewalk overflowed with vendors, people, colors, and sounds. Dogs navigated around table legs, sun dresses and flip-flops. Once out of earshot of the guitars, I turned my ipod volume up and lost myself in bright necklaces, fresh strawberries, oil painted scenes, ceramic wall hangings, used books... Hours later I found myself at the other side, only a few blocks down, next to a man playing the saxophone under a tree's shade. Jazz music centers me. Then moves me. Halfway through my walk back home, above the notes from my ipod, the saxophone still set my pace.
When I left at the end of the summer and returned to school, I poured myself hot coffee on Sunday mornings and streamed Pandora's avant garde jazz station. I had a small oil painting, purchased from one of the vendors my last weekend in D.C., in the corner of my desk. I spent the beginning of every Sunday looking at apartments and real estate in that D.C. neighborhood. I had plans. To rent and buy and live and work. I had the job and the apartment and the condo picked out. On those Sunday mornings, with the oil painting a hand's reach away, the cup of steaming coffee, the jazz music filling the room, I could slip out of the present and find myself in the future.
I held onto my Sunday morning ritual for almost a year. Until it became clear that despite blood, sweat, and tears, I would not be moving to D.C.
Reset. Maine. Okay. Yes. Friends. Crashing waters and long beaches. Familiar politics, faces, I am in the know, even though I am from away. Until it became clear... falling stocks and rising unemployment became more than a ticker, more than a statistic. We were all struggling. Student loans that can't be sold, returned, foreclosed on, dismissed in bankruptcy. Reset. Connecticut where the rent is obsolete and New York City where pay checks are still issued and I'll figure it out from there. I'll go anywhere from there, Minneapolis, Austin, San Francisco. And in this shuffle I found my heart stood in plain sight all along, in the skyscrapers, tiny apartments, streets I know well, faces I love. Overnight trains to D.C. for interviews but my heart gets off at Penn Station while my head chugs south.
My career landed a job in D.C. and I landed in the suburbs. I learned to love the commute. I learned to love this distance. On weekends, I travel to the tiny neighborhood I love. The rent is so high there I can't even daydream. I've faced reality for so long I can't even hope.
Out here in the suburbs, my living situation has gone from pleasant to absurd to "GET OUT OF THERE NOW" advice from people. I begin to bookmark craigslist ads and scan for apartments I can afford, posted by people who don't seem crazy, people who can put together a coherent sentence.
On a Friday night at 1am, I stumble upon an apartment in that tiny neighborhood with a description that I could have written and rent within my meager price range. I email the next morning and we arrange for me to check it out Sunday evening.
I went this evening.
I won't have any word on whether or not I got it until Wednesday (Thursday the latest), but it is lovely. So very lovely. And I walked out feeling more myself than I have in a very long time.
Fingers crossed for me please?
July 15, 2011
July 13, 2011
Wanderlust Wednesday: San Diego, California
This is the first "real" summer I have spent away from the ocean. I don't think anything will beat sunset from a San Diego beach, but I'm realizing how lucky I was to spend so many summers on the east coast with the ocean a few miles away.
This summer I am day dreaming of living on the beach - soaking up the sun during the day and falling asleep each night to the crash of the waves...
Where would you like to be this Wednesday?
July 11, 2011
July 10, 2011
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.
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.
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.
–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.
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.
Housekeeping
Just a few blog related things I wanted to share with you...
1) I have given up on my Today project. This is the second 365 project I have abandoned. Soooo it's going back on the To-Do list and being taken off the link list above.
2) In its place, I put a link to my photo website. There's already a link to it on the side column, so I'm not sure how long I'll keep it there... but it's there for now.
3) The images on my blog keep disappearing. Of particular concern is my blog header. (UGH.) Long story short: I blame this on Google+ and my hesitation to share this blog with everyone I have ever met. If you're interested in the longer version of this debacle, I'll share, but what I'm really interested in is: What do you think of Google+? I think I've solved the image disappearance issue, but if my images keep disappearing for you, let me know.
That's all for now. Hope you guys had a good weekend!
1) I have given up on my Today project. This is the second 365 project I have abandoned. Soooo it's going back on the To-Do list and being taken off the link list above.
2) In its place, I put a link to my photo website. There's already a link to it on the side column, so I'm not sure how long I'll keep it there... but it's there for now.
3) The images on my blog keep disappearing. Of particular concern is my blog header. (UGH.) Long story short: I blame this on Google+ and my hesitation to share this blog with everyone I have ever met. If you're interested in the longer version of this debacle, I'll share, but what I'm really interested in is: What do you think of Google+? I think I've solved the image disappearance issue, but if my images keep disappearing for you, let me know.
That's all for now. Hope you guys had a good weekend!
July 8, 2011
July 6, 2011
Wanderlust Wednesday: Chile
Does anyone know where this is in Chile?
Where would you like to be this Wednesday?
Photo Credit
Wanderlust Wednesdays inspired by The World We Live In
Wanderlust Wednesdays inspired by The World We Live In
July 5, 2011
[I'm not sure I am ready to hit publish on this. And as I say right in the beginning, I don't know how much of this story is mine to share. But I'm not sure when I'll feel ready, or when I'll know how much to share, so I'm going to hit publish. I may hit delete later. Or I may add a second part. I'm not sure. All I really know for sure is that it has been five years.]
I am never sure how much is mine to tell. I know I can claim the sunburn that ached so badly I wished it stung. I know the morning moments are mine alone. Rolling out of the covers and standing too quickly. The waves of nausea that washed through me and knocked me to my knees. I crawled to the toilet and emptied my stomach. Alone, dizzy and embarrassed. I drank too much sun. I know those moments, hours and hours before, I know those are mine.
I remember the cool breeze, the Vermont mountain air, that climbed through the window that night. Carefully, one leg after another, and then wrapped its arms around me, one after another. Cradled, the ache dulled and the sting breathed. My legs tangled in the discarded blanket. I remember the stillness before I fell asleep. But even those moments, the quiet moments alone, I'm not sure that these are even mine to share. After 8pm, I don't know which are mine to tell.
She knocked on my door at 2am. I shot out of bed. My apartment spun. My legs ached; I didn't pause to remember why. I found my way to the door and threw it open. She stood in the doorway, back-lit by headlights in the driveway. A moth swooped over her shoulder.
The next few hours are hers. They built me, but they will always be hers.
At daybreak, I deposited her into the arms of a man that loved her. I stepped back into her old car and rounded the bend before I broke. If tears came, I would have pulled over. An emotional dry-heave, I couldn't get anything out. I wondered if anything would ever work again. I wondered if she had been driving that car, would she still be alive? Too young. She was. I began to shake.
5:45am arrives as I crest a mountain and my phone registers a bar of service. He's on speed-dial and might be getting up to go to the gym. Without another thought, I dial 5. His phone is off and I leave a message. He'll tell me later how badly he feels for not having his phone on that morning. I'll never convince him that it didn't matter. Knowing I had him only one push of a button away helped as much as if he had answered. I can only imagine the voicemail he woke up to. I tried for calm, unalarming. But any message that contains the words "died" "twenty-one" "her mom" "just us" can't be classified as unalarming. "I am okay" might have been a lie or it might have been the truth. But it felt empty and hollow. I shook.
I called my mom. Woke her up. Pulled over on the side of the road and cried. The dam broke. The tears streamed down. Finally. I told her I couldn't go back to my apartment attached to the house. She assure me I didn't have to right away. I hung up with her and drove there anyway but couldn't bring myself to step inside. I stepped out of her car and climbed into mine. Felt the familiar steering wheel under my hands and laid my head down on it and cried. Whien I finished, I had nowhere else to go. I drove to work shaking.
6:30am. I had an hour and a half before the kids arrived for camp but a half hour at most before one my supervisors arrived for the day. I sat down behind my desk but didn't think to turn on the computer. I sat staring at the dark screen. She arrived ten minutes later. It took her less than a second after she walked through the door to ask me what happened. Her heart must have filled with despair for the two women she cared about and had known for years. But she asked me first how I was and hugged me until she realized she could not stop my shaking.
Almost 7:00am. I knew he would be in his office. The middle school hallway was quiet, but his door was open. I always wonder what his first thoughts were when he looked up to find me in his doorway that morning - still in my pajamas, sunburned and tear-swollen face, and bedhead hair. He rose quickly and walked around his desk, directed me to sit down and closed his door. If he hadn't, I would have stood frozen in his doorway. Sitting in his office, my teeth chattered and I told him everything in one shallow breath. He looked at me with sincere concern. "I can't stop shaking," I finished.
He got up and poured me a glass of V8 juice. He apologized that it was warm but instructed me to drink it. He pulled out a box of triscuits and divided a handful between the two of us. "Tell me again what happened," he said. And I did. With a deep breath and slowly this time, between gulps of V8 and bites of triscuits. He let my thoughts and words wander. By the time I finished, I realized I had stopped shaking. And that the triscuits were flavored garlic - the same as months prior when we sat together under difficult circumstances. "Why does everything this year felt like life or death?!" I blurted out. He responded slowly, "Because, it has been life or death." "Is this normal?" I asked empty, depleted, and utterly drained. "No, not at all," he assured me, "You have had quite the year."
I let that sink in slowly. I felt the weight of my eyes and the soles of my feet. My arms grew heavy. I thanked him and left. He told me to stop by whenever I needed. I told him I was headed back to my apartment to sleep. On the walk back to my office, I could hear the voices of the first few kids dropped off for camp. I rounded the building corner to see a mother give her daughter a hug. I knew I couldn't go back to my apartment.
I am never sure how much is mine to tell. I know I can claim the sunburn that ached so badly I wished it stung. I know the morning moments are mine alone. Rolling out of the covers and standing too quickly. The waves of nausea that washed through me and knocked me to my knees. I crawled to the toilet and emptied my stomach. Alone, dizzy and embarrassed. I drank too much sun. I know those moments, hours and hours before, I know those are mine.
I remember the cool breeze, the Vermont mountain air, that climbed through the window that night. Carefully, one leg after another, and then wrapped its arms around me, one after another. Cradled, the ache dulled and the sting breathed. My legs tangled in the discarded blanket. I remember the stillness before I fell asleep. But even those moments, the quiet moments alone, I'm not sure that these are even mine to share. After 8pm, I don't know which are mine to tell.
She knocked on my door at 2am. I shot out of bed. My apartment spun. My legs ached; I didn't pause to remember why. I found my way to the door and threw it open. She stood in the doorway, back-lit by headlights in the driveway. A moth swooped over her shoulder.
The next few hours are hers. They built me, but they will always be hers.
At daybreak, I deposited her into the arms of a man that loved her. I stepped back into her old car and rounded the bend before I broke. If tears came, I would have pulled over. An emotional dry-heave, I couldn't get anything out. I wondered if anything would ever work again. I wondered if she had been driving that car, would she still be alive? Too young. She was. I began to shake.
5:45am arrives as I crest a mountain and my phone registers a bar of service. He's on speed-dial and might be getting up to go to the gym. Without another thought, I dial 5. His phone is off and I leave a message. He'll tell me later how badly he feels for not having his phone on that morning. I'll never convince him that it didn't matter. Knowing I had him only one push of a button away helped as much as if he had answered. I can only imagine the voicemail he woke up to. I tried for calm, unalarming. But any message that contains the words "died" "twenty-one" "her mom" "just us" can't be classified as unalarming. "I am okay" might have been a lie or it might have been the truth. But it felt empty and hollow. I shook.
I called my mom. Woke her up. Pulled over on the side of the road and cried. The dam broke. The tears streamed down. Finally. I told her I couldn't go back to my apartment attached to the house. She assure me I didn't have to right away. I hung up with her and drove there anyway but couldn't bring myself to step inside. I stepped out of her car and climbed into mine. Felt the familiar steering wheel under my hands and laid my head down on it and cried. Whien I finished, I had nowhere else to go. I drove to work shaking.
6:30am. I had an hour and a half before the kids arrived for camp but a half hour at most before one my supervisors arrived for the day. I sat down behind my desk but didn't think to turn on the computer. I sat staring at the dark screen. She arrived ten minutes later. It took her less than a second after she walked through the door to ask me what happened. Her heart must have filled with despair for the two women she cared about and had known for years. But she asked me first how I was and hugged me until she realized she could not stop my shaking.
Almost 7:00am. I knew he would be in his office. The middle school hallway was quiet, but his door was open. I always wonder what his first thoughts were when he looked up to find me in his doorway that morning - still in my pajamas, sunburned and tear-swollen face, and bedhead hair. He rose quickly and walked around his desk, directed me to sit down and closed his door. If he hadn't, I would have stood frozen in his doorway. Sitting in his office, my teeth chattered and I told him everything in one shallow breath. He looked at me with sincere concern. "I can't stop shaking," I finished.
He got up and poured me a glass of V8 juice. He apologized that it was warm but instructed me to drink it. He pulled out a box of triscuits and divided a handful between the two of us. "Tell me again what happened," he said. And I did. With a deep breath and slowly this time, between gulps of V8 and bites of triscuits. He let my thoughts and words wander. By the time I finished, I realized I had stopped shaking. And that the triscuits were flavored garlic - the same as months prior when we sat together under difficult circumstances. "Why does everything this year felt like life or death?!" I blurted out. He responded slowly, "Because, it has been life or death." "Is this normal?" I asked empty, depleted, and utterly drained. "No, not at all," he assured me, "You have had quite the year."
I let that sink in slowly. I felt the weight of my eyes and the soles of my feet. My arms grew heavy. I thanked him and left. He told me to stop by whenever I needed. I told him I was headed back to my apartment to sleep. On the walk back to my office, I could hear the voices of the first few kids dropped off for camp. I rounded the building corner to see a mother give her daughter a hug. I knew I couldn't go back to my apartment.
July 1, 2011
And Then I Got Humans and Robots Mixed Up
I completely dropped the ball on the formspring questions. Oops. I didn't get an email notification that a question was asked (am I supposed to?) and when I finally logged in and saw that I had questions, I assumed that they were the automatic questions asked by a robot computer. It took me until tonight to realize they weren't.
It's past midnight, and technically Friday, so I should be posting a Follow Friday, but I'm all about breaking routine this week. Such as, I spent most of today thinking it was Monday. Enough said about my state of mind - I totally warned you that loopy posts might appear here! Anyway, apparently I'm going to answer these questions before I go to bed. And it's definitely to your advantage because I tend to over-share when I'm exhausted. So here we go...
It's past midnight, and technically Friday, so I should be posting a Follow Friday, but I'm all about breaking routine this week. Such as, I spent most of today thinking it was Monday. Enough said about my state of mind - I totally warned you that loopy posts might appear here! Anyway, apparently I'm going to answer these questions before I go to bed. And it's definitely to your advantage because I tend to over-share when I'm exhausted. So here we go...
Q) If you had to perform at the circus, what trick would you do?
A) A trapeze artist. I am surprisingly (very surprisingly!) strong in my arms and upper body. I hated high school gym class except for the 15 minutes each year we spent doing pull-ups. Wanna guess how many I used to be able to do? Also, I LOVE swings and flying through the air. And I love being flipped around. (My college friends can attest to this.) I also like the idea of having a partner. So, I would definitely go with trapeze artist.
Q) Chocolate or Vanilla?
A) Chocolate. Almost always chocolate. Except when I was 9 and went through a stage when I hated it. But that doesn't really count. So, yes, chocolate.
Q) What was your favorite year?
A) 14. (1997-1998) I believed in magic that year. I believed in the world and I believed in myself and I believed in others. It exceeded idealism and innocence and really did reach the realm of magic.
Q) If you had access to a time machine, where and when would be the first place you travel to?
A) This is a really, really hard one. I will probably be thinking about this far after I hit publish. My first instinct is always to go back to the mid-1800s. Growing up, I loved Laura Ingles-Wilder's The Long Winter and the American Girl "Kirsten Larson" books. I have always loved that time period, and even though the stories from Laura and Kirsten were set in the mid-west, I think I would love to see New England during that time period. I'll probably come up with a thousand answers for this as the days pass, but this one is my first instinct, so I'm going with it.
Q) Do you believe in fate?
A) Bulls-eye question, right there. I believe in fate even though every fiber of my rational-being and every fiber of my protective-being tells me not to believe in it. I question it all of the time. Yet, I can't shake it, which makes me think it might be one of my strongest, truest beliefs. And absolute scariest, if I'm being honest.
Q) what have you been up to? miss you!
A) Hi! I'm not sure who you are, but I am sure I miss you, also! I have become an expert miss-er recently. Or, perhaps I've regained that title from years past. Things are busy but good. Work is overwhelming life right now, but apparently I am rebelling by reading far too late into the night and answering formspring questions rather than sleeping. So, I guess in some ways, things are pretty standard over here! =)
I am going to try to be better about logging into the formspring page to check for questions, and see if I can set the notifications to email me when one comes in, so you should definitely drop a question in the box to the right. And yes, it's entirely true that they come in anonymously - I promise next time to not mistake you all for
This was fun, thanks for asking!
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