A Day in the Life || Saturday

At the end of the day, I'm hardly sure of how I got here. Sitting on this mini-couch, left here by someone else, my belongings unpacked and strewn and still packed. It's a little bit of this and a little bit of that and a lot of one foot in front of another. All of it.

I woke this morning energized but far from refreshed and far earlier than I anticipated. But what do I know anymore? Showering still requires unpacking and rearranging and repacking in what is both a shoebox and luxury suite at once. If I've learned anything the past few years, it is how to hold contradictions. How to honor both opposites.

I opted for messy hair, red lips, and my blue dress. The first day of my new year deserves a hearty attempt at just being me, yes? It was almost chilly this morning with a strong breeze that had me posing like Marilyn Monroe on my front porch. Or my front stoop. I don't remember which, and like everything else, I'm just never quite sure. Fall approaches, though. Of that I am sure.

I'm embarrassed by the amount of time it took me to get from my house and into lower Manhattan. I counted every minute I spent waiting for the bus and wondered why I never bother to actually check the schedule. Weekend track work (that isn't technically called weekend track work, I don't think, but I'm not sure) made my long ride even longer and I probably should have stayed in Brooklyn, but what do I know anymore?

I arrived in lower Manhattan later than anticipated, but the city was just waking up. I wanted coffee but needed lunch. Stopping to eat is such a kill-joy, at least that much has not changed, but I didn't have much choice in the matter, so I ate an early lunch. It was in the mirror above the Whole Foods lunch counter that I caught sight of my red lips and still blue eyes and realized how much has changed and how little has changed since I first sat down for a meal at Whole Foods over five years ago. How different this beginning feels from my first few days in Maine and in law school. How much more I know of myself now. And how much more I value that.

I walked around the farmer's market after leaving Whole Foods, opting for kale over caffeine. The vendors come from upstate towns I knew from college and my treks along the New York interstates. I had to restrain myself from bounding over and asking about life upstate. Ask about what exactly, I wasn't sure, but I recognized the town names and surely that meant we were kindred spirits. Every third person had a camera in hand, or so it seemed, and I didn't worry at all about being mistaken for a tourist. I didn't worry about anything. I planned lunches for the week with produce I didn't buy and planned which Brooklyn neighborhoods in which to buy based on their proximity to the Union Square farmer's market with down-payment savings I don't have. But dreams come true, right? And I thought: of course. Of course. And I walked and I walked and I snapped and I snapped and the shutter clicked and the people smiled and I smiled. I smiled.

It was then, in the midst of a smile, that I remembered I still had not gotten coffee. Coffee is usually the peak-of-the-peak of the morning event, so off I went. But jetting off now includes pulling out my phone and yelping coffee shops and googling directions and walking in the wrong direction twice. Everything, even coffee, takes twice as long these days. I finally found the almost-five-star-yelp-review coffee shop and walked in with tired legs, ready for an afternoon of writing and sipping. Mid-Manhattan, mid-day, mid-weekend, I should I have known: the coffee shop is full of twentysomethings and laptops. They didn't look up and certainly wouldn't get up, so I decide to get a cup to go.

My mid-morning coffee had turned into almost mid-afternoon coffee. I didn't have a place to write. Plans perpetually gone array, and no matter how much I want this transition to be simple, it simply isn't. With a feeling only slightly less than defeat, I walked back to Union Square to catch the subway and head home. Over an hour home, but home nonetheless. Home, coffee, lunch... I counted the basics and the basics count for something, I told myself.

I decided, mostly out of weariness, to try to find a free spot on one of the Union Square park benches. One lap around the park in search of a bench seat, I promised myself. No attachments to a seat or to happiness, it is what it is and nothing more. Lo and behold, a couple got off a shaded bench right as I walked by. I took their seat and a mother with an infant sat down next to me. As if on cue, a guitar player set up to play in front of us and a photographer dropped a couple of dollars in the guitar case in exchange for photographic permission. The guy with the guitar nodded twice and I took a sip of my coffee. It had finally cooled down. A breeze swept through and the guitar player began to sing.

His voice was smooth and melodic. He played songs I could have found on my itunes and I wondered why they weren't there already. A live, acoustic guitar. A cup of coffee. A photographer at work. A content infant. A cool breeze. It was better than I could have ever planned. There sat my happy heart, content and bursting.

That is my New York, right now. Unpacked and disheveled, twice too long, tired legs, and a happy heart, content and bursting. All of it, better than I could have ever planned.

Lifelines

The 7 trains runs above ground. The boxes in the basement hold my goodbyes, mostly. Let go. I repeat it accidentally or automatically.

"Do you want to stop at Starbucks for the ride in?"
"Sure, I haven't had a coffee yet today."
"I'll turn up here instead of at the light, we hardly take this road."
"I know, it's been a while."

I can cry, tears pooling and spilling, without my voice wavering. Trained, practiced. From the years when.

It had been a long time since I last cried. I can count the occasions in the past year and a half: a tear-shed move to dc and a late night whimper about a boy. After tear-stained years, I marvel at dry eyes. Who knew I could achieve this? If this is an acheivement.

Early morning, sweat-drenched trek, bus ride north, flu/cold/alergy change of plans, subway letters and numbers and transfers, neighborhoods without. An unexpected search for Whole Foods, reference to undergrad admissions, orientation, student ID, I've regressed, time folds in on itself. I'm twenty-eight, I'm twenty-five, I'm eighteen. The moon through the bedroom window. Her drawing of our portrait, once on my wall. The framed pact we made in fourth grade, "I promise to be best friends..." I'm sixteen, I'm fourteen, I'm nine. There's a storage unit waiting for my memories, waiting for my winter clothing. She's leaving too, the last of us. The house walls promise to keep better watch over the next family. I find Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. Freshman year summer reading.

"Ms. Independent." He hurls it at me, a quarterback in another life with a strong arm. It weighs on me now. That word. I've had to be. I am. I'd have to come undone, unravel myself, to pull it out, to set it aside. I would have to fall apart. But without it, I wouldn't know how to put myself back together. The pep talks I once had memorized have vanished; I grasp at the malnourished and slippery mantra, "I can do this." Empty and vacant but still there.

The return train pulls into Grand Central; I wait for the car to empty before I reach up for my backpack on the overhead shelf. "Let me help." He reaches up, grabs my bag, and places it next to me on the seat before he finishes the sentence. I look up to say thank you. He's waiting for my eyes to meet his, my smile to meet his. It does, they do, I do, and he's gone before I can form the words. My backpack waiting for me and suddenly a bit lighter.

The blankets aren't packed. My car battery is dead. I have two flat tires. Soon, it will no longer be mine. Any of it. Soon, I'll claim a seat on the subway, a view the skyline, the corner of a bedroom, and I'll begin again.

Romantic notions, really: beginnings, dreams, independence, home. They're tangled and heavy, too.

But there is always someone who sees me. Who knows not to trust my voice, to look for the tears. Someone who knows to reach for my bag before I can protest, before I know what is happening. Someone who lets me come undone, who lets me put myself back together. Someone who believes in romantic notions too: beginnings, dreams, independence, home. They're tangled and heavy lifelines. We hold on to them together.

These Days

I've been thinking a lot about Ireland lately. About the trip I took there two years ago. It might have to do with having a friend who loves, loves, loves St. Patrick's Day and all things Irish. I now own a green shirt and have a new found love of corned beef, thanks to her. I think it's more than the recent celebration, though.* And my thoughts wander from Ireland to Switzerland. I would like nothing more than to lie down in a field under the mountains. Breath deeply a thousand times until I fall asleep.

Full disclosure? I need a break.

I need an adventure. I need a new perspective. I need a surprise. I need splash, a shake-up, a strip-down.

In Ireland, I learned to call-out these needs. As needs. They start as a thought, grow into a desire, and become a need. A necessity. For my life.

We landed Ireland with a lot of baggage. Rather, I landed in Ireland with a lot of baggage. I landed in Ireland with baggage other than the shoe variety. I landed in Ireland a bit raw. As though I had showered with sandpaper each day for two years. Exfoliated down, rubbed down, sanded down until it cut and hurt. He gave me this gift, a gift of travel that became a gift of healing.

We landed in Ireland at 5am to fog and drizzle. We walked through the airport to collect our baggage. When we picked up our bags at baggage claim, mine felt so much lighter. Already. Amazing what a cross-atlantic flight can do. When we walked out into the early morning air, the mist felt refreshing on my skin. The sun would break through, I didn't have to worry. I didn't even think of worrying. About anything.

We had sunny days in Ireland. Mornings that arrived easily, two feet over the side of the bed and up and out. Hostel showers short or cold, but all part of the experience. We walked and talked and met people and took photos and learned and went and went and went until the very, very end of the day arrived with sweet dreams before our heads even hit the pillows. Tired felt refreshing, comforting, clean, cool, and crisp. Mornings felt refreshing, comforting, clean, cool, and crisp. And so it went. With golden days.

Ireland infused me with its energy. Switzerland gave me its perspective. Oh, those mountains. Always, for me, it has been mountains. I am nothing at the base of mountains. I am nothing at the peaks of mountains. I am nothing. Thankgoodness I am nothing.



The realization comes with a wave of freedom. A rush of freedom. Inviorating. Truth. Perspective. The world looks different from the base, from the peak. But I am still nothing. Thankgoodness I am nothing. And that is the biggest change in perspective. We traveled along the bases, we made our way to the peaks, we wandered in the valleys. And so it went. With crystal clear days.

There was more, of course. There was so much more those two weeks. But the energy. And the perspective. Those are things I can't find with a lens and a shutter. Those are things I can't find most mornings, these days.

These days. Oh, these days.

I need a break. I need an adventure. I need a new perspective. I need a surprise. I need a splash, a shake-up, a strip down.

I need something these days, not days from now.

And so it begins...

*I wrote this post a week or so ago

In Which I Question My Sanity (Again)

I stood outside at 1:00 am last night in my pajamas spilling the contents of my purse onto the front path to my house. The long-story-short* is that I woke up, thought I heard something, and convinced myself that there was a mouse in my purse next to my bed. (I have no reason to believe we have mice in the house. None. At all.) So I scrambled for shoes and flashlights and eventually the overhead light and my stash of huge black garbage bags I used last time I moved. I took a thousand deep breaths and scooped up my purse into the garbage bag, made my way out the front door and dumped everything onto the sidewalk. There was no mouse. There was never a mouse. I realized that as I stood above the entire contents of my purse glowing from a combination of the porch light and street light.

I scooped up my belongings, trashed the trash bag, and returned to my bed. Adrenaline running high and my thoughts feeling crazy. I had a mouse problem when I lived in Vermont. I'll tell that story someday. For now, let's just say that I think it caused me some type of mild PTSD. I emailed my friend Nicole, because she is the person who always receives my late-night crazy emails. Isn't she lucky? The noise returned. I whipped out my flashlight from under my covers. And saw a moth-like bug hanging out in the corner of my room. Oh. Right. At least now I know with certainty that there was never a mouse.

I could blame my bumpy morning on the whole standing-outside-in-my-pajamas-at-1:00-am ordeal, but honestly, not much about the night before changed my morning. At least not the getting up and getting ready part. I was half-way to the metro when I realized I forgot my camera. Which was a big part of my day's plans - get out of work at a reasonable hour and take a trip to the Mall to get some shots of the cherry blossoms and the capitol building with the sun shining on it. I turned around and went back to fetch my camera. And realized I also forgot my keys. And the front door was locked. I assumed the only roommate home was in the shower, so I decided to scrap my plans for the day and deal with the lost key situation later and just go to work. Then I realized there was a small chance my keys had not made it out of the plastic bag I dumped my purse contents into and that trash bag was sitting at the top of the semi-full trash can in the kitchen. I had no guarantee that my keys would not end up at the dump by evening. So I went back to my house. And my lovely roommate was not in the shower and let me with a smile and a little concern. I grabbed my camera, grabbed the bag out of the trash, and searched the most-likely places for my keys. No luck. I gave up and went to work. Late. I went to work late.

Nicole responded to my 2 am email with tear-inducing laughter. I told her about my keys. She told me I needed a bottle of wine. And a straw.Stat.

I lost my metro card earlier this week. Did I mention that?

I'm not sure I ever really come across as being "put-together" or "under control" or anything other than slightly frazzled, but if anyone ever needs evidence that my life spins out of control, I have stories like these on a regular basis. This week seems to be producing quiet a few of them.

What I can't stop thinking about though, is why this week feels sloppy, irresponsible, and distracted. It's not just the mouse freak-out or the forgotten camera or the misplaced (I refuse to call them lost at this point) keys.  I think it's an adjustment of priorities. A shift in focus. A change in seasons. It's that time in between when choas rules for a little while before the order returns. Until my priorities reset and my focus finds its new stationary point.

Or perhaps, it is just one of those weeks.

P.S. I found my keys.



*roommates (and anyone else) ask and I'll share the full story.

** I say this lightly but I know PTSD is a serious, real issue for some people.
*** Photo from last year. It was cloudy when I got out of work so I just headed home...

And This Time Around

There is time and space between the tipping of the water glass and the splash of water on the floor. Brick by brick, build this life. 

I have time, so much time. In between and before and before and before. I sleep more hours than I have in years. Work less than I ever have. And yet. I am tired. Always short on time. Too much time. I watch the clock. Never sure of the hour. Just that I am behind. Or ahead. Never on time. Time and time and time.

She handed me a pocket watch on a necklace chain. It is time.

I flipped the glass of water the night stand. I opened the blinds. The water has not yet reached the floor. The sun has not yet arisen. In seconds less than a deep breath, the water will splash, the sun will emerge. But I am holding my breath. Never certain of certainty.

Brick by brick, build this life.

If I wait with held breath for the water to meet the wood floor.
If I am expecting the night to never end.
If I am watching the clock's second hand.
If I am tired.
Can I muster the patience, the strength, the faith to build this life brick by brick?

Begin now. Even if.

I believe in beginnings. I create beginnings. Do I leave in the middle? For new beginnings? Give up and fail and abort the middle. I believe in beginnings.

Begin now. In spite of.

Eat healthier, send more cards, take a photo, write a blog entry, make a mistake, say yes, say no, make coffee at home, take care of the body, take care of things, get rid of things, pick up the phone, plan trips, give more hugs, laugh harder, squeal more often, take more walks, spend time alone, read more, meditate, make it all a habit, cry harder, write and write and write, focus on what matters.

[I bought books on kindle for the itouch/iphone. As not to carry heavy pages to work and back each day. As not to box them up and move them in the future. As not to spend more money. And daydreamed about having a library someday. I woke up and realized I need books, the kind I can hold, to have a library. Buy books. Flip through the pages. Read. Everyday. And build that library day by day.]

I begin and I realize: this all has always been. I lay the same bricks: writing, photography, healthy decisions, travel, affection, books. I have spaces to write; months, years, decades of logged words; a camera and thousands of pictures; a coffee pot and organic sugar; Whole Foods gift cards; books on my shelf waiting for my time. I worry less about abandoning middles. I worry less about patience and strength and faith. I have moved from hope to faith. I have moved from beginnings to middles. I am building brick by brick. Each brick feels like a new beginning. But I place it down in the middle.

I flipped the glass of water the night stand. I opened the blinds. The water has not yet reached the floor. The sun has not yet arisen. It will. It will.

[It will. And this time around, I'll talk about it. All of it.]

They Know

She doesn't have to ask what types of music I like. She made half the strewn-about, mix cds in my car and filled my ipod on its third day. He knows my lost bank card most likely sits in the boot on the floor of my closet and orders my favorite type of wine without me even noticing. She knows when "I'm fine" really means I'm upset and I'm doing everything I can to fight it. "I hear it in your voice," she'll say. When I swear like a sailor, they don't even flinch. I know he doesn't approve, but he lets me be and never, ever says "I told you so." They take turns making fun of the ridiculous things I ask at dinner time but let me build xbox cities with them on Saturday afternoons. Ask me if my ass is okay after I slide through the kitchen in socks and land hard outside the bedroom door. Don't question why I'm dancing around the driveway at night.

She knows how much sugar to add to my coffee and which playful nickname infuriates me. He says things he knows I don't want to hear and doesn't let me skirt away from uncomfortable issues. He calls me Bacon after I start cooking it on a nightly basis. We speak in an almost code language of encouragement and determination. She knows my mischievous grin and who kissed me last. Together we wear pearls and then build one-match fires and shower periodically in coin-operated stalls. Eat s'mores for dinner without consulting the other. His fingers always gently find the nape of my neck. She knows she can lift me up at any time and how much effort it takes to flip me upside down - literally and in public. He knows how to let me cry and never gets uncomfortable with it. She'll give me dibs on the last cookie.

I miss my friends. Every single one of them. The way they know me. The way they would shoot milk through their teeth if they heard me described as quiet while taking a gulp. I like to think that they'd have to agree, but then they'd smile to themselves that they get to keep the treasure of my motor mouth and the command "Emily. Breathe." I like to think that they're next to me cringing at the "get to know you" middle school questions we never seem to grow out of: what music do you listen to, what boy do you like, what's the coolest thing you've done lately? I like to think that the things they love the most about me are the exact reasons why it's so difficult to answer those questions. So I give cotton candy answers out loud and leave my friends their treasures. And for myself, the reminder that I do have friends and how well they know me. How well they love me.

For The Burst

Don't try to put your hand in mine.  My fist is closed; I'm hanging on too tightly.  To handles of hope or thin air.  Or I'm waiting for my nails to leave crescent moons on my palms in a tiny, perfect, red row.  I'll look down and point - I thought I had something there.  Perhaps I did, at one time.  My hand is clenched and I'm afraid to loosen my grip.  Afraid to fall into the dark bellows.  I can't see them, but I'm as certain they exist as my handles of hope.  50/50 probability, perhaps they cancel each other out and I'm just floating with tired, clamped fists.  Don't try to put your hand in mine; I can't let go; I can't hold on.

Don't try to lead me.  My eyes are closed and I refuse to open them.  I can't see you in front of me.  I'm listening to instructions louder than yours.  Their whispers come in spurts, barely audible, but they, and the space in between, drown out your good intentions at any volume.  I'm protecting us.  From saying yes to paths I know are wrong and from saying no to paths I think are right.  The confusion that follows when I don't listen closely enough.  To myself.  You'll feel it, too.  You'll look around and I won't be behind you.  I'll leave you standing alone.  Or worse, I'll stand there in tears and we won't understand why.  Don't try to lead me; I don't know you are there.

I'm waiting.  For the burst.  The explosion.  Potential turned kinetic with a catalyst, it all soars upward and then falls into place.  Where I can stand still in the present, look around and smile.  Stop preparing, creating, craving, starving for this change.  That takes its time getting here.  This place of mine, this space of mine.  To softly place my identity.  To say this is who I am and this is how I choose to grow.  To say I belong here.  I'll put out a welcome mat and hang a wreath on my front door.  I'll slip my hand into yours and ask, "Where shall we go?"

In Which The Nights Have Their Own Ideas

It begins with an extra toss, an extra turn, and too many sighs.  The clock minutes change too many times before they disappear.  It begins with a dream that feels uncomfortable and ends suddenly against a dawn sky.  Light blue and gray skies mix as I roll over.  I move my hands from over my head and place them under my chin, where they belong.  Drift off again, without tagging those hours as a nightmare.  Forget the minutes, the nightmare, the hands by morning.  Recall the distant memory during the third sip of afternoon coffee and then again that night when those minutes begin to grow. 

It grows into tangled blankets, warm legs, and too many sighs that turn guttural with frustration.  The clock hours change too many times before they disappear.  Denial and acceptance roll into each other as I refuse to press play on a lullaby and begin to panic about tomorrow's productivity and dark circles.  When sleep finally comes, it arrives with jagged nightmares that end with my arms over my head and fists clenched in the dark night.  It takes too long to pull them down, to tuck them under.  It doesn't take long enough to fall back to sleep and back into those hours that I've already tagged as nightmares.  They'll haunt me during that third sip of afternoon coffee.

Too many days later, and too many hours passed, I'll find out that last year's lullabies still soothe.  The same ones I found during those nights I memorized the intersections of the four walls and ceiling.  They fill the darkness and rock me to sleep.  Quiet my mind with their notes.  Quiet my heart to a steady beat.  Notes tumble over my bed, but I'm drifting, falling sound asleep.  They'll dance around me all night and scatter at the sound of my alarm.  If I had turned to them sooner, morning would not come as such an unwelcome surprise, but my afternoon coffee will taste like cream and sugar rather than stale nightmares.

Sleep feels heavy and consuming tonight.  I'll slip in quietly and let it wash over me.  A surrender that brings peace, if not a peaceful surrender.  My body finally disconnected from my mind, and a heart without, without, without.  Quiet, still sleep. The kind that needs a hand placed on the back, on the chest, in front of the nose, just to make sure... disconnected but still here.  So still.  Quiet.  Dangerously safe.

Mud Season Months Early

Stuck. Somewhere between day and night and in the center of those three notes colliding. The crash of rhythm and melody. I'm between hope and fear with belief clashing and thrashing and screeching for attention, for definition, for my hand. I'm standing in the middle of honesty, cleansed by its current but stripped down, to the center of everything and nothing, which always seem to be the same. Always the same. Loud and quiet, completely still. Anything but peaceful. Rolling over to emptiness, but sometimes I fill the space, the time, the moments, alone. A crescendo, waves rushing forward. Perfect circles. These seams can't contain that which I push against, wishing for the strength to shove and pound my fists, but honesty crumbles me and moves me. Back to where I began.

[if i knew how to install music to a single blog post, i'd post this song at the top.]

From The Department of Teen Dramas

Sometimes there are nights, after days that don't really go the way you want them to (sometimes on repeat), when you sit down in front of the CW (do you remember doing this in the days of the WB?) and indulge in someone else's struggle, drama, story arc. Sometimes you pull your computer into your lap and send emails of the show's one-liners in bold, huge, centered font to a friend who will, more likely than not, just get it. Sometimes she's in the same place in another state and always just gets it. And sometimes you are mostly kidding and sometimes you are mostly not. And sometimes, you unexpectedly have a fabulous night.

Tonight's Wisdom Gleaned From One Tree Hill 

(cut and paste from our emails, sans my huge, bold font)

• WHAT COMES NEXT? 
• I DON'T WANT TO BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO BE LATELY.
• I KNOW THAT SOMETIMES UNEMPLOYMENT LEADS TO CRACK SMOKING, AND I UNDERSTAND THAT, BUT I THOUGHT YOU WOULD BE MORE EXCITED ABOUT THIS.
• YOU MAKE SAD LOOK BEAUTIFUL.
• I understand business, I understand what we COULD do. I also understand what is fair, what is right and what is honorable. Do I want you to accept this? And to support it? And to be proud of me for it? Yes. But if you don't, it doesn't matter to me, maybe for the first time.
• WHAT COMES NEXT IS UP TO YOU.
• we're going to be okay.
• I WILL BE [FINE] 'CAUSE OF YOU.
• FOCUS ON YOUR TALENTS, EVERYTHING ELSE WILL WORK ITSELF OUT.
• dont' focus on your work, focus on your life. you are young and beautiful.
• SO FOR NOW, I SAY GOODBYE TO THIS CHAPTER IN MY LIFE, AND I LOOK FORWARD TO WHAT COMES NEXT.

From The Department of Starbucks Realizations

Starbucks at 7pm doesn't match my Sunday nights anymore, but I stop in anyway convinced that my evening cannot go on without a pumpkin spice latte, and when I walk in, there is a twentysomething girl sitting in the corner, hunched over a text book and spiral notebook.  I order, but then I'm waiting for my latte, noting that my life really no longer warrants an evening (or late night!) caffeine intake, and I suddenly miss being that "girl" sitting in the corner just trying to get the work done. 

I reason that it's my first year not going back to school (sans one temporary year) in twenty one years (or more?), if you don't count anything before first grade.  Of course I am going to feel misplaced.  But then I hear my old con law professor saying that the word "obviously" written in any opinion is a red flag that something is not "obvious" and the author just doesn't have a better explanation and wants to dismiss the need for an explanatory foundation.  (If I could cite to a case here, I would, but that's just because tonight I'm okay saying, "yes, that was my life" and leaving it (almost!) at that.)  I hardly ever use the term "obviously".  But I do frequent "of course".  And I almost groaned out loud because I had just said "of course" silently, which means now I need to find that better explanation.  So then I'm standing in Starbucks trying to decipher my feelings on September fresh starts that I haven't gotten yet, remembering alllll those exhausted Sunday nights under the florescent library lights terrified of fifty five minutes of con law Monday morning and how I used to wonder if "everyone else" in the world bakes pies on Sundays. 

So sure, that's it.  I don't need this pumpkin spice latte in my hand; I didn't get my standard September reset button; I'm running "old tapes" that don't apply anymore but still make my stomach flip with anxiety; and I still don't know if "everyone else" bakes pumpkin pies on Sunday afternoons in the fall.  I don't actually want to be that girl, drinking coffee, hunched over a book, with that worried look on her face. (And I tried the pie baking.  It only goes so far.)  But I'm getting so little of what I do want that I'm nostalgic for misery.  (I wonder if this is a worthwhile realization.)  I keep thinking "I'm too old for this" and then feel guilty, because I'm not, but I didn't know that before, and even though I know that now, I still can't stop thinking it.  I'm in a seemingly never-ending transition, and a good friend told me the other day that it is okay to be discouraged, and I really, really needed to hear that, but right now all I would really like to know is: when does this chapter end?

To Give To The Light

I'm dancing in the sunbeams streaming through my bedroom window.  Warm, soft, bright.  I have a slight bounce and a small swivel propelled by spontaneous joy.  Not to be confused with rock-hard movement anthems designed to pump-myself-up.  This movement feels airy and free.  My speaker wires sprawl out over my bed and my computer rests too close to the edge, but I'm dancing, dancing, dancing.

I spend the afternoon with the windows open cleaning out the (figurative) cobwebs and dark corners of my teenage bedroom, preparing it for this next step.  Exorcising stale high school energy.  Stripping my bed of the pillowcases that held my tears earlier this week, earlier this summer, earlier this year.  I've declared "a new beginning" time and time and time again.  And I'll declare it again, because tiny new beginnings still move time forward.  Still move me forward.  Make heavy feet feel lighter.  I hold tighter to hope than I did the last time I grew in this room. 

I found the light of my situation here, in these sunbeams, bouncing off the hardwood floor.  I'm soaking them in and promising to release them when someone else needs them.  I'm bringing in this new season with love and light.  "Dar la luz" - to give birth in Spanish - literally translates "to give to the light."  New beginnings, sunshine, and hope - Just keep me where the light is.

Humid Days

The humidity has returned today.  Everything feels moist, and heavy, and still.  I have fallen into line.  Even the minutes seem to take a longer time counting to sixty.  Dragging their heels, stopping to rest, breathing heavily.  When the minutes drag, the afternoons stretch, and I can only think that tomorrow has broken its promise to arrive on time.  I'm afraid tomorrow will leave me here, stuck in humid afternoon air.  Hazy without even a glimpse of the horizon. 

I'm ready for an end to these summer afternoons.  I'm ready for tomorrow.

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.

In Which Unemployment Feels Like These Hot Summer Days

These summer days move slowly.  Heavy with humidity, the morning dew hangs in the air all day.  Cool, morning showers un-purpose themselves by mid-morning.  As does every moment of my morning routine: choosing an outfit, hot coffee, rolling over in bed to check my email...I have all day.  By afternoon I am struggling against the allure of the couch laid out under the fan.  Afternoon heat-induced naps run counter to my well known air-conditioned office afternoons of summers past.  Those summer afternoons with crisp, cold air that nudges the afternoon quickly along.  Productive, linear, and direct, in sync to the air-conditioner's hum.  Now even those memories hang hot and heavy in the air around me.  I check the weather for a forecast I know I will not find: a break from these hot summer days.

In Which I Am Not Sixteen Anymore

I have to change the radio station to the adult contemporary station because I can't listen to hip hop at 10:30am.  The combination of bass and high-pitched-synthesized notes irrationally irritates; I hit the "tune" button harder than I intend.  And then the same with gas pedal at the end of my driveway until I realize the bush on the corner now obstructs all view of the gravel leading to the neighbor's house.  Too late to hit the break, I am actually relieved at the empty driveway.  If a lead foot and a loud bass made me feel better at sixteen (I'm not sure it did), then I'm going to have to find a different outlet at twenty six.  I'm not sure why this surprises me.  Or why I'm surprised at the lack of weeds springing up in our concrete driveway.  Or how much I still dislike the adult contemporary station - I spent too many hours listening to it in the orthodontist chair having my braces tightened.

What has changed, and what hasn't?  How long am I going to be here - do I have to figure this out?

I'm fighting sixteen year old irrationality with adult choices, like going to Big Y and purchasing my own coffee pot.  Because if I have to work my way out of this new maze, I'm going to need some coffee.  If I am going to transition HOME, I am going to need some coffee.  If I want to feel twenty six, and unemployed, and nearly addicted to 90210 re-runs, rather than sixteen and seeking summer employment and nearly addicted to 90210 re-runs, I am going to need some coffee.

"You are not sixteen anymore."  It's nearly an out-loud chant before I look around my car.  Black steering wheel, not gray.  Dark seats, not light.  It's not my '82 Toyota Corolla of ten years ago.  The coffee I was drinking on my way home last night still sits in the console.  Gross, sure, but also reassuring.  I find the CD I've had on repeat for the past few months.  It's still there.  Right where it was yesterday.  Right. where. it. was. yesterday.  I pop it in.  Take a deep breath.  And then I'm twenty six again, running to the store to fill a coffee addiction, listening to an arrangement of notes that didn't exist ten years ago.  And I remember: I am so many things I wasn't ten years ago.

On Elephants and New Beginnings

Lately I have been thinking a lot about elephants.  Solid and steady, yet graceful and gentle.  Wise.  A favorite professor in college reminds me of elephants and of an elephant.  He had the same heavy grace and solid gentleness of an elephant.  And the wisdom.  Oh, the wisdom.  Wisdom that still orients me years later.  He stood tall and lean with a straight nose and average size ears, but overtime I came to see him as an elephant.  His long arms had a slow sway and he gathered his students into his reach, protectively and tenderly.  With calm demeanor he taught the coursework and life lessons.

He introduced me to Ganesha, the elephant deity in Hinduism.  I didn't retain the specifics of Ganesha much longer after turning in my final Rel 210 paper, but I did hold onto some form of Ganesha, combined with the love of my favorite professor.  Somewhere in a deep mental filing cabinet where I keep all the most important college classroom lessons, I must have accurately preserved the specifics, because I have been thinking a lot about elephants, and Ganesha, and Professor Favorite this week.  It's appropriate.  I'm 75% certain that Ganesha is the god of obstacles and new beginnings.  Rubbing his trunk brings good luck.

Transitions in my life often occur quickly.  I over extend myself too much to allow time for slow transitions.  I devote myself too much to the task at hand to prepare for the next one.  I transition and reflect much, much later.  In some difficult ways, this entire last nine months has become an accidental transition period.  (Talk about a shock and new experience!)  In easier ways, the past few days and upcoming weeks are an intentional transition period.  I'm thrilled that I have the time and space to think about elephants, Ganesh, and Professor Favorite.  I get to plan (or at least try to because, heh, life is what happens while you're making other plans!) what I want my new beginning to look like, and how I am going to soar past obstacles (strategy #1: positive thinking).

I admit to not knowing a lot about elephants (they live in Africa, right?), or Ganesha (does he have five arms that all symbolize something?), or even all the life wisdom Professor Favorite imparted, but I know enough to let my mind wander over thoughts of elephants.  In some ways, that is more than I could have even hoped for after three years of briefing cases and separating dicta from holdings.  So these days I walk around with elephants in my thoughts all day with comfort and hope.

February

This always happens in February. September's hope rots into November frustration that I pick up off the floor in February and cradle with murmured lullabies. When the days grow noticeably longer, after I have "the best single valentine's day ever" (which always happens in the most difficult years), I start to love the cracks that let the light in.

I always surrender in February. By now, I have the placement of the brick walls I keep crashing into memorized. I stop trying to run through them. Instead I run my fingers across them, gently, slowly, noticing their small grooves, sharp pieces, smooth indentations. When I'm not throwing my weight against them, trying to push through them, climb over them, move them - so exhausting and defeating - I notice their intricacies and strength. I look around at how they have created my place, and I lay down in their protection. I collapse under their watch.

N's at the grocery store picking up children's cough medicine; her four year old charge sits on the couch, giggling, coughing, squirming, in front of Tom and Jerry. I respond to a work email from the kitchen counter in my pajamas sipping cold coffee and aimlessly wonder if we'll get snow. I'm not in class often enough to care about a snow day, my office consists solely of my laptop, I have to check the right hand corner of the screen to identify which day of the week it is. It's a futile curiosity and a futile identification - everything has been so different these past few months, I'm not certain where to lay my concerns. So I spatter them out and watch them evaporate.

I count the minutes that pass and take note of what fills them. Stuffed with vacancy or the core of what matters - when all is stripped away, I live the moments in extremes. Notice how little Tom and Jerry speak and remember how selfless and gratifying it is to love a four year old. But I hardly know this four year old. These days I can't carry the heavier things, so they effortlessly sustain me, while I watch vacant thoughts come and go. They're visitors in my home, walking through the front door, entertaining me for a moment and passing through the back door. Not noticing that I am on the ground with my hands admiring the wall. It is February after all.

That First Night

We promised we would go to the mstrkrft concert. He purchased our tickets, and honestly, we wanted to go. That first night out in D.C. required something, anything, different from our sweatpants Friday, Saturday nights of the weeks prior. My train pulled into the station three, four hours late. Her flight landed five, six hours late. Broken trains, skin rashes, thunderstorms, and standing room only, we collapsed into our dorm-room apartment with only enough time for Thai food and a quick get-away to the concert. Black lighting, techno beating, bright lights flashing, we had finally arrived in our summer city. Exhilarated until yawns, heavy eyes arrived. A projected three a.m. appearance of the main act sent us in a cab back to our dorm-room apartment before mstrkrft even arrived at the venue...

Our delayed arrivals eliminated the time for our planned Target run. Carefully packed suitcases full of t-shirts, shorts, suits, shoes, didn't allow room for blankets, sheets, pillows, towels. Our beds stood bare in our rooms. Dorm-room mattresses on dorm-room frames under dorm-room lights. Without sheets, pillows, blankets... We stood for a minute, evaluating the situation, chilled by the airconditioned air. And then we did the only thing logical in a situation like that. We unpacked our suitcases, made pillows with t-shirts, and blankets with our suit jackets. We slept under our clothes that first night. Exhausted from a day of traveling, a night of techno beats, and a year of struggles, we couldn't be more pleased with our arrival in our summer city, and nothing felt more right than that first night asleep under our clothes.

Thankful

I sat on the hard, wooden chair in an almost empty Starbucks, gulping down a pumpkin spice latte, eyeing the comfy chair in the corner, reviewing fiduciary duties, and trying to determine what I actually needed to know of Sarbanes-Oxley. The late hour would deter most people from caffeine, but the looming night-before-thanksgiving-drive brought a crowd to the drive-up window. As the evening wore on, I moved to the comfy chair in the corner, now vacated by the college students in sweatpants and uggs, telling stories of "wild" nights and name dropping types of alcohol. I had moved on to corporate take-over prevention strategies when the manager walked over and asked if I wanted the heat turned up. I politely said no, that I was fine, and he nicely ignored my polite response and turned the heat up. Two years ago, I was thankful for the kindness in the offer to turn up the heat.

Brooke and Andre hosted thanksgiving that year for those of us that were too far away and too swamped with work to travel home. Curry pumpkin soup, moist turkey, and all the trimmings covered the table. I devoured the home-cooked meal, curled up on the futon with a man who prefers men, and fell asleep before the blueberry pie. After dessert, dishes, and a second nap, Brooke sent me home with many hugs and left-overs. Two year ago, I was thankful for the love and care of close friends.

This year, I am thankful for thanksgivings at home with our families.