Labor (Day) of love

Labor day weekend stretched for four days for me. It was a sublime break from my normal routine and I slipped easily into a new one of sleeping in, enjoying the sunshine in the front yard, and working around the house. But, Tuesday morning I was back to it--hair dripping from the shower, I scrambled for keys, scooped up my laptop, and grumbled at the un-percolated espresso pot. I didn't have time to wait. I turned off the stove and decided I'd grab an americano on my way in. Back to it. My sweet hound dog looked up at me as I slipped on my shoes and grabbed the doorknob...have the last four days together meant nothing to you? his brown eyes seemed to cry. I literally sighed out loud but avoided a dramatic goodbye the way I do with him every morning: "Be good and guard the house." I said, petting his square, flat brow with my barely-free hand. "I'll be home tonight. I love you!"

This past weekend was nothing in particular--I did my normal stuff--but felt big. Actually, it marked my sixth year in Portland, my first full year in my home, and five years at my job at the museum. I had thought about going away for my four days off. Concecutive days off always seem like a potential vacation to me. I usually take advantage--climb a summer summit in the Cascades, camp on the coast, something like that. But, in the end I just stayed where I was. It was perfect. The highlight, (greasy) hands down, was the soul food feast my boyfriend and I made on Monday night. He'd left town about a month ago, with an east coast trajectory and plans to head to Mexico for a few months after that. I expected we wouldn't see eachother for the better part of a year. We'd said good-bye and meant it with the bipolar emotional mix of loss, possibility, love, and resentment that tends to accompany departures. About two weeks later he called to say he was headed back.

He's in the midst of a lot of change, now. I can see it on his face, though I've stopped wondering what he's thinking or anticipating what he might do. I know what it feels like to waffle between putting down roots and heading off with just your self. Both are worthwhile roads, I think, but very personal choices.

I am glad he's here with me now, for sure. We've had some of our happiest times together in the past two weeks doing nothing special just the normal routine, but I've become aware of how often that feels precious. In the midst of his new choices, I think I see my own in a new light. I'm sure I'll hit that crossroads again myself--the choice between roots and wanderlust. As the Labor Day anniversaries roll past I realize how content I have been just staying put. My life is good and I'm happy. I can tell when I feel it in each small moment of my routine, even (and sometimes especially) in my daily work--scrubbing the dishes in the kitchen sink, driving home just before sunset after a long day of work, taking the dog to the park--and I love it.

It tooks us about two and a half hours to make our from-scratch, soul food dinner last Monday (longer if you count the hour we spent picking blackberries). Fried chicken, collard greens, black-eyed peas, maccoroni and cheese, buttermilk biscuits, blackberry cobbler--it was a big effort. It was beyond delicious. I've always known that the good things are worth the work, that dedication (and patience) pay off. But, I've never before felt so satisfied with the work I do, everyday, just making my life move. I'm grateful for it. I'll celebrate that; no holiday needed.

sleeping through

I'm at the airport. It's the day after they decided liquids are too dangerous for carry-ons. I'd heard rumors that airport security was making mothers drink the breast milk in bottles before they could get clearance to board. I've not seen this myself since I arrived, but the idea of it gave more gravity to the homeland security situation than the "now elavated to orange alert" posters I saw at check in. I was scouting for an infant with a mother and diaper bag attached so I could see how bad things really were.

Airports aren't scary to me, though I know they are for some people. For me, airports are more often sad. Even when I'm about to head off on a fabulous adventure, they always make me feel a little melancholy. It's a place full of displaced people, all anticipating some sort of shift. No wonder it makes people nervous and suspicious that something unpleasant might happen, there's something in the air. No, not anthrax. It's change. I'm preparing with a strong IPA and a melatonin tablet (overly optimistic of me, though--as ideal as it might sound, I never, ever "sleep through it").

There have been some departures in my life recently. They've left me unsettled. I'm in transit and as exciting as that can feel sometimes, I also have my usual melancholy. In a dream the other night I fell alseep and woke at an old boyfriend's family's vacation home in the mountains. (Dreams with sleeping in them always really get to me--there's more believable because of the context, you know?) The old boyfriend told me I had slept through the 14 hour drive and we were there, with his family, on a trip I'd never planned on. But what seemed most unbelievable to me wasn't where I was, who I was with or what was happening around me, it was the fact that I'd slept through. As I mentioned, not my style.

Most times I feel all parts of a shift. I cross at the fast moving part of the stream and fight the currant all the way. I'm wondering about this strategy recently. Maybe I could make things easier on myself. Maybe I'm not learning enough from the struggles to make them worth it. And maybe the best thing to do is order another pint, have the stewardess bring me an extra pillow, and pass out. Afterall, unless the breast milk bottles (of which I still haven't seen a single one in an hour and a half) are all filled with explosives, I'll wake up in Philadelphia in the morning. All I have to do is ride out the time, but sometimes that feels impossible to me. But I'm in the airport and this place is all about change. So, here's to sleeping through...

lunch break

Recently I’m starving. I started eating my lunch at 11:52 and finished the entire thing as the clock hit 11:59. I couldn’t wait another second. I didn’t even make it until noon. By 12:08 I’m at the downstairs vending machine for yogurt-covered pretzels. The nutrition label says “Servings Per Container about 3” and I know for fact I will be back at my desk and finish the entire bag by 12:15. What is wrong with me? These days I just want to eat; eat and sleep—yeah, I’m exhausted, too. Usually I’m the opposite in the summer—salads, a handful of blackberries on a mid-day hike, tall ice waters. Something’s off. I wonder if it’s the energy of summer wearing me out. I’ve been thrashing around trying to keep my life in motion—house remodeling to be done, rooms to be painted, berries to pick/process/freeze, training for the triathlon, socializing, dog-walking, plant watering (twice during the scorching days), writing to keep up with, ambiguous plans with an even more ambiguous “boyfriend” to make…I’m tired. I feel life rolling forward, peeling off me like a page-a-day calendar. I want a pause button; I’m desperate for an afternoon nap.

I feel like an idiot whining about this. As I re-read my to-do list between the dot-dot-dots above, I feel pathetic. Compared to, um, just about anyone else, my life is simple and calm. My head literally shakes involuntarily with disbelief. I have no idea how people (world leaders, entrepreneurs, surgeons, parents) do it. People are starving, for real. People are exhausted, too. Me, clearly, I’m just bitching. I need more snacks…

bachelorettes
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bridesmaid revisted

According to some evolutionary psychologists we all move through life trying to find the most successful, intelligent, attractive, healthy partner that will be willing to be with us. For obvious reasons, this theory was running through my mind as I spent the weekend at an old friend's bachelorette party. I watched the bride, draped in a bright pink feather boa, her cheeks flushed, surrounded by people committed to making her feel beautiful and desirable (which she was). I wondered how this wedding-season ritual could be connected to our relationship hard-wiring. Coupled people like to tell single people that you have to be okay with yourself before you can be in a relationship and that nothing is sexier than confidence. I used to think that (often unsolicited) advice was about “catching” a partner. But now, I wonder if it has more to do with staying together. Maybe the only way we can feel content pairing ourselves with one person is to feel like we are at our peak when we do it—that at that moment we are going to get the best of what’s around, because we are at our best, too. That kind of confidence is hard to grab hold of, and even tougher, if not impossible, to sustain. It runs, like mascara the next morning; it sags and sputters and stinks up the bathroom. In theory, our partners could be our reminders, but if you have to be okay with yourself before you can be in a relationship to begin with, my hunch is, that qualification is also what keeps a relationship working. Maybe helping people try to accomplish that long-term confidence is too hard. So, instead, we focus on one night--dress up, throw a party, make the girl feel beautiful. Put her in that magic moment, then give her bottled water at the end of the night to qwell the forthcoming hangover and pay the bill.

That night, I was surprised to be one of only two single women in a group of 12. Most were recently married, getting married, or "about to be engaged." I felt like the one who hadn’t learned the trick, yet—like I wasn't at my best. In these situations, it’s easy to wonder why not, or if you ever will be. The line between bridesmaid and spinster in a hair’s width. As a single woman it’s easy to feel that you’re living out your penance until you discover your own self-worth. It smacks of pre-school—“Go sit in the corner alone and don’t come out until you've learned how to be okay on your own.” When I was punished that way a kid I used to come back after a minute, or even less, “I’ve learned my lesson and I won’t do it again. I’m done crying now.” I still do it--but the grown up version, a few weeks after a heartbreak: “I’m really doing well on my own. I’m happy with my life and I’m not really looking for anyone right now.” (Can I come out of the corner now and find the man of my dreams?) Even biologists agree were always looking for a mate, but wise, coupled friends insist the only way to find "the one" is to stop looking. I think I'm still too hungover from the weekend to sort out the genetics from the social norms and pick sides. So, I'll stay skeptical of it all and single, I guess.

Sometimes I feel like I haven’t learned how to be “okay” on my own; to be at my best without the proof of a partner by my side. But in reality, I’m doing it everyday. And I’m proud of it. My bare fingers are tan and strong; I can feel growth, incline ahead. For the moment, I can’t imagine anything more satisfying to be committed to than that.

honesty

There are few things that feel as indulgent as going out for breakfast on a weekday. For me, it usually means catching up with a truly good friend, eating eggs smothered in cheese cozied up to thick bacon slices, and getting to work by 10:00 a.m.—give or take. This used to be a tradition I shared with my sister for the brief year, or so, we lived in the same city. We’d get up early Friday morning, go out for Monte Cristos, and remark each time how nice it was to skip the weekend crowds that’d be lined up come tomorrow morning. Now, she’s in Vermont. Though I wish she could be passing me the maple syrup on Friday mornings, I’m happy enough to know we’re both living the lives we want, though they’re thousands of miles apart, now.

Fortunately for me, another friend of mine shares the appreciation of the weekday breakfast. We met this morning. She’s one of my closest friends, even though we don’t see each other very often and she has fifty-one years to my twenty-eight. She gives me great advice.

Breakfast is an intimate meal. We didn’t waste it. We talked about honesty. She knows me well enough to know I tend to make nice, only to dream night after night of reaming people out. That’s me--polite until I pass out, then hide the butcher knives, ladies and gentleman. Actually, if I look back, it’s interesting how slight the motion is for me between biting my tongue and biting someone’s head off. All the intermediate steps get buried, I guess.

I don’t know why I often find cold, hard look at myself and (especially) others to be so tough. Maybe I don’t want to believe the world is a hard, cold place. I’ll take my rose colored glasses and stuff my anger/disappointment/resentment someplace where it won’t block my view. Today, my friend told me I have to let it go—that I have to unleash those things that I’m inclined to repackage and justify or simply tuck away. She says “something magical” will happen if I do. This is breakfast and she is honest so I believe her. But I have to wonder if it’s something I honestly can do.

401k and foreplay

"I just want a guy who has a normal job--not delivering pizzas and playing in a band. He should have normal sheets, top and bottom, without cartoon superheroes. A guy who can keep it in his pants on a first date, like a gentleman. Is that too much to ask?"

I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of my conversation with a smack-dab in her mid-twenties girlfriend of mine. She's great. We're both struggling to comprehend relationships and our talks usually take on a tone of dumbfoundedness. Nevermind graduating with honors from competitive universities and working demanding jobs, we feel clueless about this stuff. If only we could treat it like Algebra, Geometry, or Calculus--solve for x, find the axiom, and apply it to every problem we encounter. We're pissed off by relationship relativity.

Last night we were talking about qualifications--the list of what's expected in a mate. And, more important than that, what you should expect to let slide in order to have a relationship. Compromise seems frighteningly close to settling sometimes. As we walked, our lists swelled with details and then got juiced down to its essence again, as if knowing both versions might help us really discern where the line was. "Ultimately I'm looking for a 401k and foreplay," one of us said. "One shows he can take care himself, the other shows he can take care of you. Is that too much to ask?" But there it is again--perhaps that's the problem, right there. We're perpetually afraid we're asking for too much. I few weeks ago I wrote a list. At age 28, it was the first time I put what I was looking for on paper, but I didn't post it because it seemed silly, or maybe I was afraid I'd have to take it seriously and make all the potential suitors in my life measure up. Maybe something has changed in me since then. Maybe I have a little more confidence, enough to raise the bar and post "the list." Here goes:

-he will be kind and loving, like wrapping his arms around me when I’m washing the dishes and rubbing my feet after a long day
-he will be passionate, knowing that the right music and the right words make sex even more amazing than the right moves
-he will be strong. he can lift things that I can’t and will carry the heavier backpack on our trips.
-he will be artistic, or at least an art appreciator
-he will be excited to teach me things like how to caulk old cracks in my home or how to say “I’d like a coffee/whiskey/motorcycle” in French.
-he will be eager to surprise me in little ways and know that flowers are never cliche
-he will be smart. he can hold a conversation on many different subjects without falling back on rehearsed rhetoric and say things in a way I haven’t heard before. he contributes something new to my mind when we talk.
-he will be good with money and financially secure
-he will be sweet with children and dogs
-he can fix things, like the broken derailer on my bike or the doorknob that has fallen off so many times I’ve decided to ignore it.
-he reads. even better if he does it in bed with me before we go to sleep.
-he will hold me in the morning and we will spend time awake talking about the day ahead or the night before and just enjoy the bed-moments in between.
-he will want to do things--relaxing would be a hike with the dog or bike ride, not sitting in front of television.
-he will be able to tell me how he feels about me without limits or hesitations
-he will have at least as strong a sex drive as I do.
-he will help me slow down when I need to but not make me feel badly about my manic side
-he will have a sense of humor that doesn’t depend solely on scarcasm
-he will have a loving family and want to bring the best of their qualities into his own family
-he will have an appetite for good food
-he will encourage me in my career and other ambitions
-he will want to travel and he will plan spontaneous journies for us to explore new places, even if they’re just an hour away
-he will not be bothered by my divorce but won’t avoid the topic, either
-he will feel like I make his life richer instead of feeling limited by being in a relationship
-he will be attractive and fit. he can keep up with me on a long run and look great next to me when we go out.
-he will be interested in contemporary politics but in positive, pro-active ways
-he will enjoy spending time with my family and I will feel comfortable with his, too.
-he will be polite and comfortable in social situations
-he will be dependable--show up on time, follow through with commitments, be there when I need him
-he will be committed to our relationship
-he will think I’m beautiful, intellegent and fun
-he will be ambtious and have a plan for his future. he will want me to be a part of it.
-he will love nature and enjoy doing things outdoors without having to be “extreme” about it
-he will be a “boy” at the core and like it that I am a “girl”
-he will bake me a cake for my birthday
-he will be honest but still senstive
-he won’t use it against me when I fall for him completely

love and backpacks

I spent the weekend backpack the Ochoco Wilderness in eastern Oregon with two of my favorite boys. One is in the photo with me. I've discovered the real joy of backpacking is as much about the afternoon naps under ponderosa pines as it is about climbing high and deep into the forest, hauling a 40lb pack. I slept more in the woods last weekend than I did the entire week before. I really relaxed--relaxed myself and relax into him. I literally did--leaning into his chest like a chair as we sat by the fire, taking turns reading aloud by flashlight. I love this man. I loved watching him fly fishing, seperated my the width and roar of the stream as I read a book with my feet in the water. I loved how we took up our old card game again during a thunderstorm and how he didn't mind the wet dog on his sleeping bag when the thunder got too scary for my sweet pooch to stay outside the tent. I loved that he kept casting his line until he caught us enough trout for dinner, eventhough it meant waiting until 10:00 pm to eat. I love him, but now I can't relax. He's leaving in a few weeks. It's a sort-of indian summer romance, but way too early in the season. I can't decide whether I want him by my side for every second of it, or if I'd rather push him away and take my pain now. So, instead I convice myself that I'm happy in the moment, trying not to overthink it. Just relax, I tell myself. But it was easier in the woods.

criticism and chocolate

Last night I made brownies, whipping cocoa powder, sugar, eggs at about 9:45 pm. It was one of those nights where I fumbled around for something to do to lift my mood. The brownies were a slightly manic, critical effort. My job, and one client in particular, had gotten the best of me earlier in the day. It was only after I’d hung up the phone that I’d realized I’d endured another bout of verbal abuse. The only cure, I decided on the way home, was watching an entire DVD of Sex in the City (season 4, disc 3) straight through. I crawled into bed as soon as I got home and watched on my ibook. Between the third and fourth episodes I got up to make the brownies. The old stand-by, Carrie and Co., wasn't working--I was still hanging onto the ruthless criticisms I'd endured during the morning conference call. I'd have to move onto the stronger stuff. I hate how the worst insults hang in little word bubbles over your head. Like a bad pop song--I couldn't get her voice out of my head. I came to the conclusion several months ago that I will never please this particular woman, but for some reason I keep trying. In fact, I'm working my ass off attempting to be perfect to avoid her cutting displeasure. Of course this never works and I cry every time she reminds me that I am far from it. So, last night I focused on chocolate--brownies I can do to perfection.

I wish I had a better strategy for dealing with people's shit. Clearly my current plan of simply taking it isn’t working. But, like every time of struggle I know I must be on my way to learning something. Right? Maybe the lesson today is, when life gives you shit you make fudgy brownies.

women's lib

It feels cliche to bitch about being a girl, but sometimes it just fucking sucks. I feel proud to say many of my closest girlfriends are amazing, strong women. They have 401Ks, books on home electrical repairs, and car payments as well as vintage apron collections, candles on the tub rim, and unapologetic crafty hobbies like knitting and canning. We've made a statement (and a lifestyle) out of juxtaposing the stereotypes. We seem to know exactly what kind of women we are until we have to factor in men. I've done it, myself, acted out of politeness and expectations only to cry over my choices on the other side. A marriage or a one-night stand, it's the same. By getting wrapped up in what he and I were supposed to be to each other, I forgot who I was.

Women of my generation are suppose to feel grateful we were born now, after the brigade of liberators has already marched through. Our predecessors felt guilty about abandoning motherhood and homemaking for careers and life-long dating. We feel guilty when we realize we've let them down--that we're still trying to be the women men are looking for. There are songs about being true to ourselves and we've all sung along into the viscous breeze of open car windows. The tunes come back to haunt us when we realize we've catered to expectations of what a good woman is. We put on and put out and hate ourselves for it--after all, we knew better, right?

But today I'm thinking perhaps those moments and those lessons can't be learned by an innocent on-looker. You have to live it. You never really understand how to stand tough until you've been conquered once or twice. It takes some tears, and some uncomfortable lessons, but when you're a woman, I think, you have to be your own liberation.

birds of a feather

"Is it a jay?" he asked looking out my bedroom window. The plump bluebird that'd been living in my holly tree was noisy as usual. The morning was bright already at 6:30 and the jay, if he was a jay, was squawking his typical song.
"I don't know. Some kind of jay, I think," I replied. "Someone told me the name for the noisy ones like that, but I can't remember."
My friend stepped closer to the window, looking hard. The thick, bristling leaves make the holly tree paradise for birds--safe from predators and surrounded by glossy, red berries. At least the jay always seemed happy there to me.
"I think there's two," he said with childlike excitement. He pulled his fiance, one of my oldest friends, to his side. "Yeah, look, there's two. I think they have a nest."
I watched them watching--two dear friendships to me borne out of one. They are great together. I've know her since I was fourteen;I met him about five years ago, just after they started dating. The fact that he would be a friend of mine on his own, without her as the connection, makes me feel even more certain about it. I love them both and this fall I will be in their wedding. I've watched a lot of friends get engaged and married in the past few years. I try hard not to place odds on which couples I think will make it and which won't; that seems mean-spirited and too cold and typical for a divorcee (I am divorced but refuse to be typical in that catagory). But, I've got my secret opinions. I find myself asking could I be in that marriage? A lot of the time the answer is an unequivocal, no.
They say no relationship is perfect. Even the couples you admire are quick with the disclaimers, well, we have our issues--we fight sometimes, too, you know. It's the relationship equivalent of knocking on wood. I don't know what makes some relationships work and others not. My feeling these days is it's all about tendons between two people who love each other--the stuff that isn't easily explained but unmistakable when you feel it. Couples come together and it looks the same--meet, find a tree, make a nest. You have to look closer to see the things that keep them together.
My friend pointed out the window to show his future bride the glimpse of a nest and dull-feathered female jay resting deep in the holly tree branches. “Look,” he said. “He has a wife.”

(writing) exercise

It’s hot. Not hot exactly, but the sunlight is baking. It’s the first time the sun’s been out like this in a while and the dog is restless after several days of neglect. His walks have been too short and this run is overdue. He trots along; he knows this route—a gravel path in the slough. It's warm and my shirt, even with its short sleeves, feels too tightly woven. It’s hot and I’m out here alone. I’ve never passed more than half a dozen people the times I’ve been here before. This is our route. Five miles out and back and plenty of space for the dog to wander off the trail and back to me again. He knows the spot where I take his leash off. He slows there and sniffs and waits for me to unlatch his collar. He waits as I fumble with the headphones and leash—they tangle around each other and my fingers. He sniffs and pulls a bit. Then, he’s free. It’s hot. I squint, looking west, watching the dog run. No one’s out there with us—everything is still except the grass along the river. I grab the edges of my white shirt and pull up. I’ve never done this before, at least I honestly can’t remember a time I have. I take my shirt off trying first to slip it over my head with the headphones still on. The collar catches on the chords and everything comes off--headphones with the shirt. The temporary loss of the music feels uncomfortable, exposed. I’ve never going jogging in just a sports bra, but I’ve always wanted to. I’m thin and I have been since I was about 15, but I’ve always had a soft stomach—hidden under t-shirts. My chubby stomach has always kept me connected to my chubby adolescence. I’ve never been able to get rid of it, and I’ve worked at it, believe me. I remember despising it when I was younger—stretching in careful poses when I dared to wear a bikini, turning away from sisters and friends in a dressing room, never lifting my shirt to wipe a sweaty face after a long, summer run. I don’t ever talk about it, though. It bothers me enough that I can’t tell people. I don’t want to hear what they might say back—scoffs and rolled eyes or sit-up suggestions, there’s no good response, really. I’m too sensitive. My shirt’s off; I wrap it up with the leash and headphone chords and start running along the path. Deep breaths make my ribs feel taught and solid against the breeze. My stomach is soft, though; it shakes as I run. The last time I bought pants they were a size 4. My stomach shakes. That annoys me. I don’t know how to think of my own body. It feels good, though—the air, the openness, the exposure. It feels great to do something I’d been so afraid of. I see three bikers ahead and I hold my posture higher. They pass, I don’t care. I wonder what I look like to them; what that perspective is from the outside. Could they tell, as I pulled my arms in closer to my sides, that I'm not comfortable this exposed? What's it like from their view? I remember learning about the Venus statues in my first Anthropology class in college—small clay figures with disproportionately large and oblong breasts and bellies. They were made by early, cave-dwelling women, sculpting from their own perspective. The proportions were all off because they only saw themselves from above. I look down at myself. Do I look different from someone else’s eyes? It must be better than how I see it. That’s how I’m doing this--exposing what I like least about myself. I've decided to hope that other people see me better than I see myself

single-girl sonar

I was waiting for the Max downtown last Saturday and I got restless, so I ducked into a shop and bought myself a ring. I didn't see it in the window or anything, I just walked in knowing there'd be something there for me. And I was right--six dollars and perfect. No need to deliberate. I was out of the shop and back at the lightrail stop before the Max arrived, the funky silver ring on my right middle finger looked as if it had been there all along. It makes me happy when I look down at it now--a testiment of spontinaity and kismet. Okay, it's only cheap, silver-plated jewelry, but come on, a whole series of epic novels has been written based on a little band of metal. Humor me.

The ring has concentric circles radiating out like sonar. It fits how I've been feeling these days--tuned into life around me and sending out some waves of my own. Like last night. I went out for beers with a good friend, mostly because I knew his cute co-worker would be there, too. I rode my bike to Mississippi St. and pulled up to the patio of one of my favorite spots. They'd already finished half a pitcher by the time I was locking my Cannondale to the railing. I saw him watching me from across the patio as I crouched and fiddled with the lock. I paid attention to my movements, hoping he was still watching and already interested--take off the helmet but don't brush those dramatic, wispy hairs back; don't use your teeth to rip the velcro on the bike gloves off; and for godssake, don't yank your bra or jeans up...I don't care how much you want to readjust...he's watching. I don't know if he was, but I wasn't risking the wrong signals. He's a sweet guy with steady eyes and a great body. We talked well together, although I've learned that conversations with new people can be deceivingly interesting just because it's all uptapped--Really, you're from Ohio? Oh, you have a labrador? Yeah, I love the bratwurst here, too. Not too tough. That's why those first meeting conversations are much more about the waves--the eye contact between the banal background check. And that's what I've had a lot of recently. I've collected a handful of imaginary suitors this way, none of whom have my phone number or have offically asked for a date, thus their imaginary status. But, there've been waves.

vanity and value

I watched Vanity Fair tonight. I’ve never read the book, though now I might. I love films where the opening scene comes into focus once the movie progresses. I look for the full circle and feel satisfied when I see it close. In the opening of this film the young girl was sitting in her father’s studio as he painted. A wealthy patron comes in to buy an oil--a portrait of the girl’s dead mother. Her father offers it for four guineas, same price as all his paintings. The girl stands in protest shouting that the painting is, in fact, ten guineas. Not because that's its worth, but because that amount would be “too much to refuse.” The story unfolds from there and Rebecca Sharp, the heroine, spends the rest of the film discovering and redefining value.

I wonder about how that happens in life. We spend so much energy sizing things up, deciding if what we have is worth the effort we put forth and eyeing options for the moment when we might trade up. We chase satisfaction and puzzle over why we’re never happy. But, there’s something irresistable about growth and accomplishment. I’ve always thought ambition was a great virtue, now I wonder if it isn’t the thing that stands in the way of peacefulness and satisfaction--the truest accomplishments in a human lifetime. (Or at least I guess the Buddhists would say so.) So, is that voice inside me just American-bred rhetoric that I might be great if I only hold fast, work hard, and aspire for the gilded life I secretly know I’m destined for? Afterall, haven’t great men and women admitted that success is always there for anyone to harness, if you’ve got the tenacious grip? I’ve wondered if I had the heart and hands for greatness. Sometimes I have felt it resting there, taunting me with possibility.

A few days ago I had lunch with my ex-husband. He’s an attorney now with his sights set on politics. He could do it. I married him knowing he could; maybe it was one of the main reasons I became his wife. We ate bistro burgers at the power lunch spot downtown. It was my suggestion. I did that throughout our relationship--put him in the environment where greatness might take hold of him. I may be overstating my influence, but I think that’s how he got to law school in the first place. He got through it on his own, for sure, but I know I was a big part of the momentum. Looking back I wonder if I pushed him forward in that you-go-first kind of way because I didn’t know if I could accomplish the same success. Or maybe I wasn’t willing to fail (and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to try to begin with). At the very least, I’d learn from watching him go first. He asked me if I was resentful of that--him in school as I worked to pay bills. If that was the reason we split. I said honestly, no, but now, awake at midnight, I reconsider my reply. Not whether I resented him, but I wonder what was so frigtening about valuing myself? Why did leaving him feel like the only way I could really do that? I guess for whatever reason, what I had with him wasn’t enough.

So much has changed for me since then, but what was frustrating me at lunch was how much hasn’t. How I still feel that uncovered something within me that I can’t quite grab the corner of. I can’t decide which direction to tug, but I’m dying to expose something new. I worry that I’ve already spent too much time deliberting it. Like Becky Sharp, I seem to be born with the notion that one inncorrect step could lead directly to ruin, so I stay motionless. Where is my faith in cycles now?

There’s great danger, I often fear, in trading up. In the bargaining stance, sure footing is never guaranteed. And lately, putting my foot down feels a lot more like tiptoeing. Like a TV ad for a local used car lot--I'm given ‘em away, folks. My deal feels like being a deal.

People say in your twenties you struggle with who you are. Maybe that’s what this is for me. But it feels like something bigger--not simply wondering who I am, but deciding what I’m worth and more than that even, what in life is worthwhile. I have two more years of my twenties to go. I feel completely clueless about the answers to these questions. Ten years doesn’t seem long enough to make such huge determinations. One lifetime doesn’t seem like enough. So I watch someone else’s story on film, wait for the circle to close, glad that someone else is going first.

spoiled

So, I found this quiz on another blog and thought it was interesting. Supposedly, if you score 40 or more, you're spoiled. I scored 25. I don't know if I feel spoiled, but I definitely feel fortunate.

I bolded the ones that applied to me:

☐ your own cell phone
☐ a television in your bedroom
☐ an iPod
☐ a photo printer
☐ your own phone line
☐ TiVo or a generic digital video recorder
☐ high-speed internet access (i.e., not dialup)
☐ a surround sound system in bedroom
☐ DVD player in bedroom
☐ at least a hundred DVDs
☐ a childfree bathroom
☐ your own in-house office
☐ a pool
☐ a guest house
☐ a game room
☐ a queen-size bed
☐ a stocked bar
☐ a working dishwasher
☐ an icemaker
☐ a working washer and dryer
☐ more than 20 pairs of shoes
☐ at least ten things from a designer store
☐ expensive sunglasses
☐ framed original art--um, maybe, if my own art counts!
☐ Egyptian cotton sheets or towels
☐ a multi-speed bike
☐ a gym membership
☐ large exercise equipment at home
☐ your own set of golf clubs
☐ a pool table
☐ a tennis court
☐ local access to a lake, large pond, or the sea
☐ your own pair of skis
☐ enough camping gear for a weekend trip in an isolated area
☐ a boat
☐ a jet ski
☐ a neighborhood committee membership
☐ a beach house or a vacation house/cabin
☐ wealthy family members
☐ two or more family cars
☐ a walk-in closet or pantry
☐ a yard--but only in the front
☐ a hammock
☐ a personal trainer
☐ good credit
☐ expensive jewelry
☐ a designer bag that required being on a waiting list to get
☐ at least $100 cash in your possession right now
☐ more than two credit cards bearing your name--um, I believe this makes me stupid, not spoiled
☐ a stock portfolio--for retirement
☐ a passport
☐ a horse
☐ a trust fund (either for you or created by you)
☐ private medical insurance
☐ a college degree, and no outstanding student loans

Do you:

☐ shop for non-needed items for yourself (like clothes, jewelry, electronics) at least once a week--well, what's a "need" exactly?
☐ do your regular grocery shopping at high-end or specialty stores
☐ pay someone else to clean your house, do dishes, or launder your clothes
☐ go on weekend mini-vacations
☐ send dinners back with every flaw
☐ wear perfume or cologne
☐ regularly get your hair styled or nails done in a salon
☐ have a job but don’t need the money OR
☐ stay at home with little financial sacrifice
☐ pay someone else to cook your meals
☐ pay someone else to watch your children or walk your dogs
☐ regularly pay someone else to drive you
☐ expect a gift after you fight with your partner

Are you:

☐ an only child
☐ married/partnered to a wealthy person
☐ baffled/surprised when you don’t get your way

Have you:

☐ been on a cruise
☐ traveled out of the country
☐ met a celebrity*
☐ been to the Caribbean
☐ been to Europe
☐ Been to Hong Kong
☐ been to Hawaii
☐ been to New York
☐ eaten at the space needle in Seattle
☐ been to the Mall of America
☐ been on the Eiffel tower in Paris
☐ been on the Statue of Liberty in New York
☐ moved more than three times because you wanted to
☐ dined with local political figures
☐ been to both the Atlantic coast and the Pacific coast

Did you:

☐ go to another country for your honeymoon
☐ hire a professional photographer for your wedding or party
☐ take riding or swimming lessons as a child
☐ attend private school
☐ have a Sweet 16 birthday party thrown for you

fire hazard

About a week ago a truck exploded behind my house. Metallic clanging, like someone dragging a barrel across a railroad track, and then voices interrupted my dreams. There was a loud pop and a roar, and everything started moving. I ran a couple loops through my small house, using up the adrenalin that overpowered logical thinking. I didn't plan for this. The kitchen windows, glowing orange, kept pulling my eyes back as if the flames wouldn't encroach if I kept watching. I managed to think of the file cabinet and scrambled for files that, I hoped, had the important papers--title, insurance, phone and policy numbers I was sure I'd need when my house burnt to the ground. I remembered my cell phone, leashed my dog and was out the front door, in pajamas, legal file folder under my arm. I checked my phone when the fire truck arrived--3:27 a.m. I watched from across the street. When the fire was out, I cried. But, everything, as I reported to friends and family the next day, was fine.

A week later the burnt shell of the Chevy is still there, about 30 inches from my house and charred. Leaves over 15 feet high on trees nearby are blackened. It was so close.

When I bought my house last year I had a thorough inspection. The inspector was a thin man with a mustache that muffled his words. I knew him for less than 3 hours, but I trusted him. After all, he put on a full plastic suit and slithered into my crawlspace to get a closer look at some suspicious mold. (I wouldn't do that for $425!) And he talked to me like a father would. We walked through and around the house as he pointed out all the things I'd need to fix. His words became the dialog in two months worth of anxiety-filled dreams after I'd moved in. I'd dream there was a huge hole in the side of the house, then I'd turn and hear him talking calmly and softly through that 'stashe. "Raise the gutters, improve the basement ventilation, clean the air ducts"--it felt like warning shots. Judging by my guilty conscience you'd think deferred maintenance is a mortal sin.

I went out this morning to look at the spot where the fire had been. One of his first remarks rang in my head: "Trim back those hedges. There should be a space--they shouldn't touch the house. That's a fire hazard." The hedges have grown 10 months since then, untrimmed. I didn't totally get it back then, but it's blatant now. The truck was parked on the other side of those hedges. That space could have been the difference if the fire had spread. It would have been my fault. After all, I'd been warned.

Now I feel shaken enough to have renewed vigilance. As always, my experiences and my thoughts about life are overlapping and I see a new lesson emerging. Where once I thought coping with life's struggles was about erecting boundaries and holding solid, I wonder now if the difference is really in maintaining that cushion of empty space--not to close yourself off to what might come your way, but to insulate yourself with open, yet protective, air. And maybe what makes a person a whole "self" is as much what you are as it is the space that defines and holds you seperate from everything else. It certainly give new meaning to the cliche of
"needing space." But, lately things feel overgrown and weedy, vulnerable to flames. And it all feels like my fault. I've deferred maintenance because I can't decide if I'm more fearful of the fire hazard or the emptiness.

heaven is a treehouse

"The lighter part is the tree growth during favorable conditions," he explained pointing at the concentric circles in my chunk of wood. "The cells are larger, more porous because the tree is growing faster then. The darker rings are growth during hard times. The cells are denser and stronger." I was listening; trying to learn what he was telling me so I might put the important bits in the exhibit. I got distracted; I was making personal meaning, instead. I love it when nature connects with life as I've experienced it. It's more validating than realizing an old cliche is true. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Even the tree learned that one, year after year after year. I could count it in the rings.

I believe cycles are evidence of God. The revolving process of death and birth of that encompasses everything--all of us. For me it's easy to have faith in that. I know from my own life that after every season of sadness and anguish there has been a rebirth of something more uplifting than I could have imagined. I believe in that and that belief itself has saved me many times. I don't talk about religion or my faith very often. I find the most profound thoughts don't translate to words well. But once I was talking with a friend about death--the afterlife. He was agnostic, scientific, and logical; the type to scoff at the notion of a "heaven" but not to be too concerned about what happened after death. His brain would stop functioning and thus his ability to worry about it. I told him I believed. He looked a bit credulous and waited, skeptically, for my reply. "After each trial in my life, I've been reborn into something more beautiful." I explained, timidly uncovering myself. "I think death is the ultimate human trial, and heaven the ultimate beauty you pass into. It's just the next cycle."

For me believing in God or heaven is as simple as that. There's evidence right there, in the trees.

get what you need

As a kid I thought my father’s wisdom came from three places: National Geographic, since he often referred to their articles at the dinner table; “the office,” that mythical place he went off to each day; and, most importantly, song lyrics. When we asked him a question, he would often sing his responses to us. He sang with this look in his eye like he knew he was telling us something we wouldn’t quite understand until we looked back on it as a memory. You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone…as he palmed my belly and showed me how to do a strong kick in the pool. The dangerous kitchen, in the middle of the night when you get home…as he weeded through the fridge for leftovers to feed us for dinner. And his favorite, You can’t always get what you want…He’d interrupt our pleas with that song more times than I can recall. I remember fighting it off; trying to interrupt him with a frustrated “Dad! Dad! Come on…Dad!” I knew the lyrics well, and I didn’t want to hear what I knew was coming. But, he wouldn’t stop. He’d tip his head back and sing the song until he howled the crucial line: If you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need!

That song comes back to me every once and a while. My father’s parenting continues through the lyrics as I learn those childhood lessons again. I had fantastic parents, but sometimes I’m surprised that I’m still trying to learn the four-year-old basics. As many times as I’ve been through disappointments and unhappiness, my instinct is often to whine and fight. But it’s not fair, I want to yell. We’ve all been told that life’s not fair, and we know it must be true. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I still get mad when things don’t go my way—the right way. But I eat healthy and exercise, but I worked so hard on that project, but I’m so qualified, but I tried so hard and I wanted it so badly…I furrow my brows looking at the empty space where the gold star should be. Karma feels broken and my instinct is to rebel.

As I get older, the evidence against “fairness” is mounting—friends have died in tragic accidents, cancer inflicts healthy people, friendships are betrayed, benevolent deeds go unnoticed. As much as I’ve wanted the world to repay me my honest efforts and good intentions, I recognize it’s beyond my control. For me, that’s the really hard-to-swallow part. And maybe what my dad was trying to teach me all those years ago was in those moments—when you’ve done everything right and still things turned out wrong—the only thing to do is see the song though. Tip back your head and howl…if you try sometimes, you might find…

drama

I’ve started wondering about my writing; the stuff I do on this blog and the other scraps of things I’ve been working on. I’ve been worried that I’m overdramatizing, that I see layers of metaphor in everything, and that when I pull it all together it’s unoriginal and superficial. In my mind it’s moving and motivating--once I feel something I need to write about it immediately--but when I read over what I’ve writen I worry it seems juvenile and inflated. I think too much about what I’m trying to say, maybe. I actually wrote a post yesterday that was accidently erased when I tried to attach a photo. I decided not to rewrite it because I was feeling that insecurity and frustration.

I am reading a book about writing, The Modern Library’s Writer’s Workshop. It’s a direct and neat guide and well-written. I’m glad I picked it up this morning. The author, Stephen Koch, spoke directly to my insecurity about drama and my tendency to see and seek it. I wish I could send him a thank you note. Here’s what he wrote:

"Incredibly, there are people--smart people--who think a prim distain for drama is somehow a sign of “good taste.” It is more often a sign not of good taste but of artistic insecurity. Not knowing how far to go, the writer goes nowhere. Lifelessness is not a form of elegance you should persue."

Yes. Thanks for the reminder.

losing my lunch

The right CD was vital today. I picked well and toggled between the three perfect songs as I walked across the Hawthorne Bridge. I was meeting my ex for lunch. Lunch is a very civilized thing to do; it can easily become emotionless and obligatory. It was his suggestion and, of course, I accepted because it would be perfectly harmless. Afterall, I’m completely over it, right? Of course I'm not, and the headphones are a dead giveaway. They’re a crutch for when you need a soundtrack to cover over the reality. Today I needed the perfect pump-up music to delude myself. If I admitted the “truth” (that I am of course not over him) I’d have to cancel. And there was no way I’d cancel--I was dying to see him. The music put the deliberateness in my steps, confidence pulled on as easily as my jeans and black wifebeater (god I hate that term, but it’s what I wore). It had been his...yes, yes, we’ve established I am not over him. Moving on... It was hot, my little planet felt shifted, the sun was a spotlight, and I was squinting in anticipation. A biker who looked nothing like him was riding toward me. I knew it was him. Months of being apart erased in 20 seconds. It felt like nothing had passed between us and that was surely a very, very bad sign. We hugged long, both of our bodies thinner from the wear of seperating--tactile evidence that something had passed.

He must have felt the heat too, because he suggested shade. We sat under a huge maple tree near the river and ate sandwiches--his with vegetables and hummus, mine roast beef on rye. We set them down between bites and covered whole topics--my family, his, his work, mine--before picking them up again for another bite. It went on like that for about an hour until we’d finished the sandwhiches that had actually begun to stale in the ninty-degree heat. We’d discussed everything within bounds, then, just before we had to part, I stepped out. “Do you miss me?” I asked plucking grass to avoid his eyes. He stopped putting his shoes back on. “Yes, very much. I think about you all the time.” His pause lasted until I looked up from my grass patch. “Do you miss me?” He asked, looking directly across the regulation space between us. “Yes.” I replied. I didn’t qualify it. I just looked back. There was nothing else I could say out loud.

I don’t remember much else about what happened after that. I was busy thinking out the possible conversations that might have come from my reply as he kept talking. I couldn’t hear the reality over my imagination. Looking back now, maybe that was the problem with us all along. I think he said something about doing the best we can with all this; figuring out what was best for us. The word best was in there for sure, but I couldn’t hear him. I was stuck in my reply; frozen in my yes and the trailing hopefulness still foolishly attached.

I don’t know what I think or feel about it all, even now. In a lot of ways lunch with him feels like eating street food in Latin America, I can’t tell if it was a good decision until it moves through me. Right now I’m still swallowing hard and hanging onto my belly. I’d like to say we did well, it was good to spend that time with him, and we might do it again sometime. The truth is, I don’t know. For now it’s hard enough just to try and take in the reality and see if I can hold it down until morning.

exfoliate

Saturday night was prom night--not mine. It's been 10 years since I went to the prom. It's that time of year and Saturday night was filled with kids outfitted for a night of faux, formal adulthood. I was out with friends at a restaurant filled with girls in overconstructeded up-dos and formal gowns with the bulges and lines of control-top pantyhose showing through. The prom makes high school girls think they need to suck it in. I think I weighed about 120lbs in high school and I remember wearing pantyhose like that, even after skipping breakfast for weeks before. I couldn't stop watching those girls. I'd like to think it's because that time feels far off; that I'm so opposite that place now. Frustratingly, I think the reality is I am still there with them, in a silky gown, eyeliner that I practiced putting on for weeks before, and wondering if he was wishing he hadn't overlooked me. It was even more frustrating because that morning had started strong. I woke up early and exfoliated. The clean face somehow made me feel more open to the world; more sure of who I was in it. Sometimes what I need most is the symbolic gestures. I rode the Max to the downtown farmer's market and bought chard, green garlic, lettuce, asparagus, rhubarb, pork chops, and a bunch of purple irises--treating myself to the things I wanted. I felt great being me and with nothing "put on." I felt like the woman I imagined I might become back when I was eighteen.

Then, Saturday night I realized (again) how much of my own history hangs on. Seeing those high school girls reminded me of how deeply I was carving who I would become back then. Or, more truthfully, how firmly I still cover myself in the same identity, even though it's outdated, unnecessary, and not me anymore. Something of that time in my life became the stuff I still can't scrub off. The he who helped me feel like I wasn't enough; the girls whose bikini-ad stomachs forced me buy the control top hose so I might measure up, the self who believed their invisible judgments. Those days were just the beginning of something I still struggle with. Sometimes I can say "fuck it" and other times I find myself in the same pit of self-doubt. It feels like that--a hole, but one I've climbed out before. I know a few ladders, but they usually involve getting someone's attention and approval and I know where that leads. But this time I know I don't want to use any of those old routes. I want to take myself someplace different.

I've had hard times holding myself in the uncomfortable moments before--lying lonely without reaching out, resting in awkwardness, admitting my own ugliness instead of disguising it. I've been having those moments recently. But now I am scrubbed down and it feels like an opportunity. I want this time to be different. I want to be different.

I heard once that all your cells, from skin to blood to brain, regenerate at least once every seven years--you are literally a new being every seven years. I guess it's just the memories that hold it all together to make a lifetime (for better or worse). It's easy to say you've stopped caring about what others think of you and how they see you; I find it's much harder when it's inexorably connected to how you've always seen yourself. Maybe it takes more uncomfortable, exfoliated moments than I've let myself have to stop caring about how you appear--that what you need is to just wait it out until the truer self can carve something new. For now, that's what I'm trying because--although it may have taken me ten years to realize--I'm definitely done with those fucking hose.

generous helpings

"Woah, $58. Is that okay?" asked the man at the meat counter after he flopped a second flank steak on the scale. "Yeah, it's fine. It's my birthday and I've got great friends." I was throwing a party, afterall, and treating my friends and myself to a fantastic night was exactly the gift I wanted. "Wow, I guess so. Lucky friends." he said. "I think you should put a jar at the door and take donations." I laughed and scooped up the two brown-wrapped steaks and wheeled my already-full cart off to load up on extra tomatoes and avocados.

The party was better than I ever could have planned. My sister came in from Vermont as a surprise, my brother grilled the steaks to perfection, and my different groups of friends were making new friendships among themselves. There were introductions and fresh conversations. You know how they say when you learn new things your brain actually carves new pathways? It felt kind of like that--new pathways. The energy was so engaging that no one even noticed my parents rolling their large suitcases across my front lawn and walking in the front door. And somehow during the hugging and hellos with my parents, I didn't notice my friends had lit candles on a cake. And there I was, in my little house flanked by my parents, surrounded by my friends all packed in shoulder to shoulder as they sang to celebrate my birthday. It was a top-10 moment in my life so far.

My brother and sister's visit was too short, but my parents were here for a week. Their flight left early this morning. The three of us spend nearly the entire time putting a patio in a little gravely spot next to my house where the driveway had been busted up a few months ago. It was hard work and expensive, certainly nothing I would have been able to do on my own. But my parents were truly tireless and over-the-top is the only way to describe the beautiful patio they helped me create. My parents generosity overwhelms me on a regular basis. Last night we had dinner there--on the patio under a swollen spring moon. We ate steaks, purchased from the same guy who had sold me the flanks exactly a week before. My father ordered three NY Strips and told the now-very-familiar-with-my-life meat counter guy the story about the patio. "Wow, what a birthday present," he said. "Lucky girl. You guys want to adopt a 47 year-old male?" I blushed at his comments; I feel almost embarrassed at how much good has come my way this week. I am very, very lucky. My generosities to my friends and family feel insignificant to what I've been given. There's no need to leave a jar by the door. I know how much I've got--it's a fortune.

rest up

This is my dog, Charlie. He's been mine since Valentine's Day when I picked him up from the Humane Society. Strangers gasp at his beauty--I'm serious. When they ask what kind of dog he is I've started answering "he's a black dog." The Humane Society and the vet have him down as "Hound Mix, 78 lbs."I may be biased, but I think he's the most beautiful mutt I've ever seen. He's at home now, probably still lying with his lazy jowls on the front porch in that same patch of sun. Lucky dog. We were up late last night frosting and sprinkling cupcakes. I think he's resting up because he knows tonight's the party...

doing

"There's always two guys," my friend told me as we hoisted and hammered his new cabinets in place. I was helping him all day Saturday, eventhough I had a long list of my own housework to do. "One speaks English. He cuts the deal. The other, his buddy, doesn't speak English--he's always the better craftsman." He was talking about Mexican day laborers; the guys you can pick up on Burnside Avenue near the I-84 overpass. I pass them everyday on my way to work as they wait in a cluster on the sidewalk for trucks to pull up. A few have backpacks, but most have nothing but the logo-splashed t-shirts on their backs. They swarm the truck and the most tenacious pair get seats in the cab and head off to a day's work--ten dollars an hour. My friend got my help for cheap last Saturday; I worked for spicy chicken wings and two cans of Pabst.

I don't think they'd fit in my bug, but I would've loved to pick up a few day laborers this morning. Although I've been doing non-stop (okay, except for the Tuesday night drunkenness) nothing seems to be getting done. My brother arrives tomorrow morning, all my friends show up in the evening and my parents will be at my house by 9:30--TOMORROW! I'm throwing myself a party. My to-do list has three pitiful lines drawn through a long string of ambitious tasks that just won't get done in time. Okay, one of the tasks was "pedicure" but this week, even that feels like an effort. I need the silent craftsman. I wonder if he can do French tips...

my side

This morning my credit card is still at the bar. I stayed too late last night with three friends and at least that many pitchers of microbrew. I drank enough to completely forget the tab…on a Tuesday! Amnesia Brewing is hands-down my go-to place for beers, especially on a warm night. They've got picnic tables outside and a charcoal grill that makes the whole place smell like summer, even when it's not. The ketchup bottles, some turned upside-down, and portly mustard jars are set out by the grill on a plastic table cloth in a "come and get it" style that makes me feel at home. It’s the only bar I am totally comfortable going to alone. But, last night I was with friends. We were two girls, two guys; all good conversationalists. It felt like playing well-matched doubles. Because we're all single, we naturally talked about relationships. One of us has been on a serious quest for love--online, in bars, at the dog park; the other was still mending from a Christmas Eve break-up; and the third was contemplating the Peacecorps, perhaps (among other reasons) to avoid the whole coupling thing, altogether. And me, well, I was proudly proclaiming that I had just last week started sleeping in the middle of the bed. It's a few inches, but a big move for me. "Yeah," someone said, "I have a hard time with that just 'cause there's two pillows. So, I just use one. Then, I'm on my side." "Oh," I replied too quickly. "Well, I keep one pillow under my head and I snuggle the other one." Someone scoffed and I could feel the comments that were about to follow. I cut them off. "You know, I wrap my arms around one. Like an L-shape. I make a nest. I've done it since I was a kid" Shit, I had already told too much, yet I kept throwing out details about my sleeping postures--gasoline on the fire. "It's nice!" was my last brick on the bulwark. Then I shut up and let them attack. "No way. I'd never do that," someone said. "It's too pathetic. It would make me feel even more lonely." I took the crass pillow-humping jokes and ridicule and the conversation moved on, so did the night, until it was just me and one of the guys finishing off the last pints. He's not really a close friend, but he's comfortable, like the bar. I like him--almost enough to let him replace the other pillow; not to have sex, just to have somebody there. And last night, after all that IPA, I almost did. He lived near the bar, I shouldn't be driving--the circumstances easily let me follow him home. We sat in the front room of his old house. Since he's working on the bedrooms and he lives there alone, everything's been moved downstairs--desk and easy chair in the living room and a bed where a dining table would be. He made me a cup of tea and we kept the conversation up to avoid silent moments that might make either of us think too much. (However, thinking too much is clearly something I do effortlessly.) I could see his bed and the simple sight of it introduced options, like maybe I didn't have to go home to a half-empty bed. In those moments I really can't tell what makes me choose.

I left just before 1:00 a.m. I didn’t get closer to him than to hug goodbye, but in those moments I felt opportunities hanging over us like ghosts. And I left feeling spooked.

This morning my eyeballs were dry and my stomach heavy as I drove to work. I was trying to judge my choice--wondering if I’d done the “right” thing, worrying that I’d cracked a door when I didn’t want any open, feeling confused at how divided I can be even when I'm completely alone in my decisions. And why does it have to be such a big fucking deal? I'm not surprised that I can simultaneous long for some connection and stand stiffly protective of myself. In every situation you can do something or not do it, but somehow in that binary simplicity I see webs and branches growing in all directions. And there I am, in the middle and not sure what to hang onto. Yeah, maybe it’s inches, but it’s big to me. I think last night I realized that for now I need to just stay where I am—on my side.

fidget

My ibook came yesterday. It is certainly the best birthday present I've ever bought myself (I'm 28 on Saturday). It's brand new and seems like more than I deserve, but it also feels like a real investment in myself and what I want to be doing--writing. I'm throwing a party Friday night and my parents arrive for a visit from Pennsylvania, so I've been too busy doing stuff to do anything more than open the box. But I can't stop thinking about cracking into it and filling all the empty space with writing. It reminds me of being in seventh grade English class. Mr. Argot taught us grammar and I was getting it. I loved English enough, even back then, that getting grammar was pretty stimulating for me (I know--nerd). Sarah Smith sat behind me and she seemed to be a little less into the grammar thing than I was. Sarah was a quiet girl but with a jittery, excitable streak. She had upturned eyes and a tipped-down chin when she smiled as if she was waiting for you to kiss her blonde bangs. That day in English she was antsy. I could hear her fingertips drumming the desktop rhythmically. I glanced halfway over my shoulder a few times before turning enough so she knew I was noticing her tapping. "Sorry," she said in a whisper. "I just really wish I had a piano right now." I understood what she meant. Sometimes you just really want to play. That's how I feel now; stuck at work and drumming my fingers on these keys to mark time and temper my impatience until I get to the real stuff. These days writing is my play, like being let out for recess and right now I'm dying to run...

old growth

Last fall I bought my first house. It's old for Portland (built in 1926) and a lot of work for me. It's the cliche first-time homebuyer line, but I had no idea when I signed that stack of legal-size pages just how much work it would be.

My best friend lives in Colorado. She and her husband bought a brand new place, built just for them in 2004. I called her this weekend in between filling the huge hole under my porch that was dug during a sewer repair a few years ago and sanding and painting quarter-round in hopes that I might finish the trim on my kitchen floor before my parents arrive this week. I sat in the front yard in my painting pants (the ones I have found myself wearing all weekend, every weekend) eating a lunchtime spinach salad with avocado. I talked in between chews--my trademark multi-task move. On the other end, she was on her sewing machine--which is her move. Like most things since we were 15, we go through stuff together; not always at the same time or in the same way, but together. In my mind that's kind of the hallmark of our best friendship. The house thing is like that. I told her about my day and she replied, "Yeah, our house is great. I mean, it's great that things are just done already. But, it doesn't have a lot of character, you know. There's no old growth, or anything." I snorted and hastily licked the dribbles of sunflower seeds and salad dressing off the fork. "Well, my house is all old growth!" I said. Old growth--like the defunct knob and tube wiring that dangles from the basement ceiling right beside the new electrical box; like the 800 layers of paint on everything; like all the chipping, bowing, cracking, shifting, molding, worn-ness that is my home. And I love it, in fact, it was the main reason I chose the house. But it torments me. We kept talking and I had finished my salad, so my multi-tasking took a new focus--pinching the dead blooms off the pansies in the hanging pot on my front porch. While I was away in Alaska my housemates (who perhaps don't even notice them hanging there) neglected to water them. When I came home the plant was covered in ghostly, dead blooms and wilting. With some care the green came back, but I knew the only way to get it to really flower again was to pinch off the dead ones--old growth, I thought.

It all reminded me of people, how I'm not much different than a house or a plant, really. I have old growth--the layers underneath, old wounds, blooms that withered. Sometimes I have found myself wanting to pinch off the old stuff, determined to grow even more beautiful and strong. The dead flowers only drain the plants energy, afterall. And other times I feel more like my old bungalow--the cracks and flaws, and evidence of life's rough side are reminders and treasures. I've found some of the most brilliant moments amidst pain and struggle and some of the world's greatest beauty in a dry December field. I feel blessed to live in a world that provides a chance to celebrate and experience both. And I think I just may let that wiring dangle in the basement to remind myself of that.

portland is paris

It's downright gorgeous here today and nobody appreciates 78 degrees with sunshine like a Portlander. We wait so long for it. It makes me love, love, love this city. My romance for Portland inspired me to read an article last night in Edible Portland Magazine [http://www.edibleportland.com/] interviewing one of my favorite local chefs, Cheryl Wakerhauser. She owns a delicious patisserie called Pix. I feel like I'm in France everytime I step inside--soda shoppe chairs with red cushions, paintings of bug-eyed lap dogs in gilded frames, cases filled with petite pastries. I go there when I feel like my life needs a little frosting. I wear a skirt and order the pear rosemary tart. It's the most incredible thing--flaky, tender pastry, delicate poached pear, earthy rosemary, and chocolate ganache. Mon dieu! I am always so thankful that Cheryl created that place and brought our city a little bit of Paris; a place where I can go all alone, wear that skirt that makes me feel like the girl who used to have tea parties with her dolls, and be renewed in my joie de vivre. Cheryl talked about how Portland is the Paris of the U.S. I think I believe it, even though I've never been to Paris. Our city is rich in moments of art, simple exchanges of neighborliness, and a nice tinge of hendonism. It's lovely.

I talked to a friend yesterday who is planning to leave Portland. As much as I love it here, I confessed I'd been thinking about it too--maybe for graduate school, maybe for adventure. I was just imagining possibilities. It's hard for me to think about leaving this city, but I realized as I was talking to her that in a way Portland's taught me what it takes to be happy anywhere I am. It sounds cliche, but it's the little things that do it--having the newspaper delivered and reading it with espresso from the stovetop pot, growing tomatoes on the windowsill, riding a bicycle to the store. The scenery can change; even the people can change. I've learned how much happiness it brings me to simply live my art, doing everyday things with beauty. It was here that I discovered my joie de vivre, so I think Cheryl is right--for me, Portland is Paris. I had no idea how important frosting can be.

dance, dance, dance

My younger sister, Meghan, is a dancer. Sometimes I like to think I had something to do with it, not because I dance, but because when she was a young I dressed her in pink tu-tus and encouraged her to spin and arabesque. Even with chubby toddler feet, she was remarkably graceful. Now she's twenty-one and a beauty. She dances with the university company and will be performing tonight. It'll be one of those nights where I feel how far apart we are (she lives in Pennsylvania). Her company was featured in the local paper and Meghan's quote sung out. "I've learned how I feel when I dance. I've moved past the idea that I have to do it this way. Now it's more about the art and how it comes together. Every choreographer is different and will want different things from you. But you can bring yourself in. You don't have to lose yourself as a dancer." She's not a toddler anymore. (By the way, she's on the far right in the photo.)

This morning I've been thinking about dancing and how it's such a part of being human, maybe for exactly the reason my sister describes--you bring yourself into the art, or perhaps bring the art into yourself. Either way, it's a profound experience that has existed since before we could even speak to one another. It's certainly something I would see in Meghan if I were there tonight.

Last night I talked to my mother on the phone (she's also far away in Pennsylvania). She says she's "at that age where they test you for everything." I have mixed feelings about the exhaustive medical measuring that "they" tend to put us all through. My reactions swing from gratefulness, to annoyance, to resent. So, amidst some recent medical rigmarole my mother had her bones scanned. She is thin and fit, but the numbers have dictated some treatment is recommended for fragile bones--grateful, annoyed, resentful. Now a women who gave birth to four children, has hiked the Rockies, and rides a Harley on sunny weekends is afraid she's "frail." Last night on the phone I tried to push aside my anger at the "they" who gave her this diagnosis to say something to help her see her full self--the strong woman she is. Then she said, "They say dancing is really good for this." This morning as I read my sister's quote it came together for me. Because no matter what "they" say to my mother, she can do things (and see things) her own way. We all have that power and maybe dancing reminds us of that. She can dance and "bring herself in" because "you don't have to lose yourself as a dancer." Perhaps dancing connects us to a bigger thing--history, humanity, and a deeper knowledge of our own limitlessness. It's something "they" can't measure. Lean muscles and strong bones aren't the most important outcome and maybe that's why it helps.

Tonight my sister will dance. Soon, I know my mother will too. And this morning I also got a string of emails from some chattering girlfriends, making plans for Saturday. We're going dancing.

the belly thing

I keep thinking about Alaska. It was my second trip there and a confirmation of what I described as a "belly thing" the first time around. No, not the same "belly thing" that Mexican border town lunches do to me. Alaska gets me in the gut. I feel a pull before the plane touches down. And even in Bethel, a town that could easily (and appropriately) be described as desolate, I felt hopeful and curious.

The people who live there describe Bethel as "off the road system" which means the only way anywhere is by airplane. Sure you can take sled dogs or a snowmobile certain places, but really it's all about bush planes. I like that feeling of remoteness. It focuses you on the details of living life. Sometimes not in the greatest way--there's a lot of talk about how to deal with sewage, garbage, and the high price of neccessities. But there's also a reverence for the seasons and the welcomed resources they bring--salmon, berries, grasses, and hydroponic tomatoes. Everything takes care to survive there, so people have developed a delicate touch. But I think there's more to its appeal than the thrill of survival.

My travel partner, Marcie, was obsessed with photographing churches during our first few days in Bethel. For a small town there seemed to be so many. In general, the population is very religious, which most people will credit to the strong influence of missionaries who arrived early in the 20th century. There are stories of priests--including one notorious Father Fox--who would forceably pull people from their homes if they were absent from daily morning mass. Christianity bulldozed Yup'ik spiritual traditions to the point where people are still reluctant to practice (or even talk about) the dancing, feasting, and gathering that was part of the old ways. But the churches didn't really call all this history to mind for me. It seemed more connected to a general feeling of faith that the people in the tundra appear to possess. Being so disconnected makes it easier to believe in the unseen, I think. For many families, there's not much difference in believing in heaven than believing in Los Angeles.

I can't help but bring all these thoughts inside myself and reflect on how the world I have lived in has shaped me. I tend to dart from thing to thing with an enthusiastic fever. It's the breeze of activity and expectation that keeps me going. Patience, faith, and delicacy are harder for me. Maybe that's why this place pulls at me so much; maybe it's those things I'm most hungry for. Afterall, I did feel it first in my belly.

tundra

Correspondence from Bethel, Alaska sent
April 19:

"bethel is so different from anything i've seen. it's pure tundra. the small wood houses don't seem warm enough to keep out the cold. the people must be tucked inside, though, because the only folks i see are those darting by on snowmobiles (which they call "snowmachines" here) or riding in enormous truckes laden with icicles. everything has icicles, actually. the dogs are outside, though, howling to eachother from house to house. there are 16 mushing huskies at our place. they're beauties and seem to withstand the frigid temperatures well-enough. i had to double up on hats, wearing them in layers against the wind, and longjohns are a complete necessity. i'm staying in an old log cabin built 30 years ago by my host, fran. he chopped each log to build the place himself, then floated them 50 miles downriver to bethel. he was a real pioneer back when he was in his twenties, it seems. he keeps it cozy with a wood burning stove and layers of quilts on the beds. fran's a 50-something hearty soul with nordic red hair and long legs that make him seem younger than his years. he wears carharts and clearly works hard at several jobs which he only vaguely describes to us. "work" is a slightly different term here, i think. he greeted us with long explainations of the town (laced with our first hints of bethel gossip) and how it's grown since he arrived in the 70s, his eyebrows dancing with inflection under his furry ear-flap cap. what a talker he is! i find that's the most interesting thing about this place--the stories. everyone shares them, taking the time to create the mood and include the details. it seems to be the main form of entertainment around here and it feels right to me."

morning flight, six degrees farenheit

I am leaving tomorrow for Bethel, Alaska--the SW interior and everything unknown. Despite my best research efforts, I have little idea of what to expect--something between snowmobile taxis, seal blood soup, and wifi. It's treeless tundra with twenty hours of daylight and, I'm told, exceptional latte stands in town.

I sent out an email to some friends today saying I'd be leaving I got a reply from a woman who knows me from wilder, younger days--back when I was twenty and riding through the tip of South Africa on a motorbike. As I wrote back to her I heard my own words and knew I'd written the truth, even before I totally understood it. And the words were exciting:

"i'd love to catch up, too. let's talk when i get back. i'll call you.

i'm recently single again (after an amazing love affair) which means lots of fire in the belly. i am done crying and ready for adventure! so, here goes nothing..."

And just like that everything is fresh. Spring is pushing through and I can remember the smells and sounds of who I have always been. I packed the rubber boots; I am expecting mud but for the first time in a while, I don't feel stuck at all.

safety chutes

All I want to do is write and yet I’m not. I haven’t. I’ve put it off with the belabored process of trying to buy a used ibook. I decided it was the key to getting my writing done (um, yeah, kind of like starting this blog--don't remind me). It would be the place, the thing that would hold all my writing--my years of blue spiral bounds replaced by Macintosh. They say I can pick it up tonight, then I’ll start to write—for real. I know it’s all a big stall. I guess I am afraid to start because I know there is something coming. I feel my characteristic courage pushing through, even as I write shit (or, as is more common these day, don’t write shit). I do other things and think about the dozen stories started in my mind. Other things like last night.

Last night I had beers with three guys—a friend and his two roommates I’d never met before. I like meeting new people. I have confidence in my first impression. I know how to pepper the conversation with the right bits to make my life sound interesting. I can juice it down. (Life can be so much banal routine; it’s easy to know what to leave out.) But, we talked about boy things, since I was outnumbered and amenable. Skydiving, bungee jumping—to me it’s all falling and unappealing. I have no desire to fall. Flying sounds fantastic, but falling sounds like a silly adrenalin gimmick. “It’s about facing that fear,” said guy number two. “It’s about pushing beyond my limits and overcoming them.” Why, though? “Then when I want to drop into a killer line, or jump off a 30-foot cliff, I won’t have that fear standing in the way.” He responded. “Plus, it’s totally safe.” Riiight, now I see. It was the cliché boy response, but it got me thinking about why anyone would want to do this. The notion of fighting fears and disconnecting the neurological wiring that was genetically developed to keep us safe seems counterintuitive, yet we seek it out. Though I can't ever imagine myself jumping out of a plane, I do it too, in my own ways. Why should overcoming fear give us such a rush? I glanced across the table at my friend—the one who has struggled with relationships since I met him. He gets afraid and runs. There are lots of details and circumstances that make up the different ex-stories, but the juiced-down version is always the same story (very banal, because it’s life). I felt exposed as the only girl, so I had to wait until number two and three went to bed to ask guy number one, my old friend, my real questions about facing, fighting, overcoming fears.

Guys will hurl themselves from planes, leap with faith in a long elastic band, and sail off cliff baying with glee “why not face fear of commitment, fear of intimacy, and the other real male fears with the same gusto?” I asked. He smiled awkwardly and scoffed some reply “because skydiving is just about me. With relationships there’s a whole other person.” Hm. Unsatisfying. Perhaps this man will put more faith in a packed chute or an elastic chord than a woman. I guess it makes sense if you’ve hit the ground before. Maybe falling in love isn’t much different. We go in for the rush and thrill and when we hit that critical elevation we hold our breath and go for the pull chord. Then maybe, I thought, skydiving is not about facing fears at all, but putting yourself in the most frightening moment and discovering you are actually totally safe.

decision

I started boxing several years ago. I just walked into a class one day looking for something that would make me sweat. It was a 5:30 class; it was really just opportune timing. I’ve always gotten a rush from boldly walking into something new. “You mean you just moved out there, not knowing anyone?” It’s a courage/pride thing, I guess. My dad used to compliment us as kids for ordering adventurous things on a menu—“good order, Melly,” he’d say with a wink. Even in small ways boldness was rewarded. I responded by insisting on sleep-away camp at age eight, alligator appetizers on vacation in Florida, and getting on my first overseas flight at age 20—headed for India.

I had no idea when I walked into that gym, but boxing fits me. In fact, that gym changed my life, in more ways than I would have anticipated and probably more than I realize, still. Boxing is contradictions—developing new instincts that overpower fear. You move in for the pain, but can never fail to protect yourself. But, when a punch lands you realize that’s exactly what you’ve done—dropped that left hand. And although those hands get all the attention—powdered, wrapped, and gloved in bright red—the successful fighter knows it’s all about the feet. If you can find balance in those contradictions, boxing becomes an exercise in respect. Not unlike any relationship, it’s about getting it, giving it, losing it, and, often, fighting for it.

Maybe that’s why in relationships we often focus on our fights; or why in boxing victory is called a “decision.” Things are decided, changes are made, dominance changes hands. My first relationship—my marriage—had no fighting. I thought that was a good sign. My second relationship was an affair. I met him at the boxing gym. For longer than I would like to admit I struggled with him. Struggle, I learned during those weeks we’d see each other, is the definition of passion. I had never had either before and then I was thrown into the ring. So intoxicated by sweat, and blur, and even the sting of a jab, I never bothered to keep my left up. But there’s nothing better to remind you that you have that left then getting a good night hook to the jaw. Although that relationship seemed negative in every way, that boxer helped me discover my left.

Sometimes I get exhausted to see that so often my life needs gloves. Accounts are past due, senior colleagues are skeptical, boyfriends become indifferent. I feel overwhelmed, alone in the ring with a crowd (if only in my mind) watching. I go looking for a towel—anything to throw down to stop the struggle. But recently I’ve been trying to remember that sometimes if I just listen for better music and remember to breathe, I can get past the contradictions and the stings I can keep my left up until the bell. And there is a decision.

happy endings

I decided 20 minutes before the movie time that I needed to see Pride and Prejudice last Sunday. Going to movies alone is my thing recently. Except I had the time wrong, so I ended up at the theater after the usher closed the door--20 minutes late. I went in anyway. My timing was off, but I refused to change my plan. It was okay, though, because I know the story. Even if I didn't I would've been fine. I don't need all the edge pieces to put a puzzle together--I've got a gift for filling in what's missing, sniffing out foreshadowing, and ruining the punchline. Somehow figuring out the ending is the only way to keep myself happy. I would have never survived in Austen's world. I'm nowhere near patient enough. My hunch is, she wasn't either, that's why she created heriones who could calmly needlepoint for years waiting for fickle suitors to come to their senses. I think writers often write what they wished they would have said and done for the someone-reading-along who might be braver than she was. But does it work? As I read along, I admire the herione for her faith and perseverance in struggle, but when it's my turn I fumble for corner pieces and rush for resolution. I know there's a happy ending waiting, so why not run toward it?

Last week I heard someone say that true peacefulness can be found even in the most unclear moments. Ever since he said it, I've wanted it--the ability to sit quietly and let the script unfold, trusting that truth is slow. Maybe that's why it seems so scarce in our instant-messaged world. We move too fast for truth, virtue, and peacefulness to settle into our waiting laps. Afterall, these days, who has time to needlepoint?

afternoon

Both times we broke up I ended up at the airport. It was around 4:00. They make time in the afternoon for these sorts of things, they told me. It was quiet and the gate agents casually gossiped, three of them helping me at once like formal waiters. That part felt right; I felt like I needed all three. Manicured, nails clicked against the outdated keys to make new plans. Somewhere between waking alone and trying to fall asleep again, things get done and a new life tries to assert itself. It’s when we make time for those sorts of things. It was when I gave up the flight I wanted to take to go someplace safer. And when it was done, both times, I cried, with tears that were just waiting for things to be done.

I called you yesterday afternoon as I drove back to work. I wanted to stop and tell you the things I had meant to say the night we talked but couldn’t look each other in the eyes. I wanted to say the things that require eye contact. And it was the afternoon, so the timing felt right. Except when I was done I left without a plan, no new ticket, no safe destination. And this time I didn’t cry.

urban decay

The city made me sad--the struggles and impossible refuse of life unswept and those who toil late to make neat piles. They stopped only briefly to read titles of books in shop windows that describe their direction-less gaze, tossed again by educated minds. Find Your True Purpose. They run in embarrassed suits paired with white tennis shoes because they can't breathe without that breeze. But, we are still alive.

St. Valentine

Yesterday was Valentines Day. My sister, in an attempt to make it better, sent me a history lesson of how the day began—the story of St. Valentine. This is what she wrote:

so...i did some research to find out if valentines days is actually a hallmark holiday like all the gripers like to proclaim-- here's what i found-- the origin of the day began when claudius II (leader of Rome) could not get enough men to join his army and thought it was because they did not want to leave their loved ones so he cancelled all marriages and engagements. St Valentine (a bishop) continued to perform secret weddings for lovers and was caught and sentenced to be clubbed to death. Story goes, he fell in love with Claudius' daughter while in jail and just before he was killed, left her a note "love your valentine"-- he died on Feb 14th! and there you have it...just thought you'd like to know we are celebrating the violent death by clubbing of a roman bishop! bring on the chocolates!

I guess we celebrate the note, not the clubbing. Well, some might go for the clubbing (with a pre-established safety word, of course). Brutal love. This year it feels that way.

I met him last year at a Valentines Day party. I always thought that part was kind of cheesy. But it was love, right from then—swan dive, roll around, gorging without forethought. I remember his red shirt with the metal snaps on the front pockets and his wild curls. He had the feel of worn-in passion like dusty jeans and the slightly crooked teeth of a man who would always do things his way. We talked closely, afraid to touch, which we did just once. The back of his hand brushed my forearm and a thrill like opening a love letter or walking through foreign city streets leap through me. It was undertow. My kind of love definitely has no safety word.

This year we are not. There are words to describe it, I guess—broke, breaking, broken. None of them describe the twisted tendons I can still feel between us and the tremendous, powerful love that still lives there. He had paths to travel and those damn crooked teeth didn’t lie. In my tenderness, I couldn’t feel anything except "in the way." I couldn’t stop saying things to him that I desperately wanted to hear back. Why couldn’t I just wait? I’ve given up warm arms and a mind that could calm and nourish mine to my impatience.

Last week I came to work in rubber work boots and no bra after a frantic night of “breaking” with him. Despite how good it felt to make love, it was the night it our break felt real—like it just might stick this time. The comfortable people I know--the ones who manage relationships and fashionable shoes while I spin around myself like revolving door--tilt their heads in empathy. They can reserve and temper themselves; they follow rules and suggest books so I might do the same; they see my unwashed hair, sagging breasts, and red face and graciously pretend not to notice it much. Afterall, I may one day evolve and get the secure love I "deserve." But time after time, I’ve taken the club for love. My kind of love. I can’t help but wonder how many times I could hurl myself at a brick wall, especially when it’s painted with an alluring, red heart with a scrolling, “love your valentine.”

unpublished material

Proust once wrote that all writing was crap and all anyone needed was 3 or 4 books for a lifetime. (Well, he said it with flourish and multi-lined, unpunctuated sentences, but that's the gist.) Maybe he's right. I always had certain "wise" friends in my youth who kept a pulpy copy of a carefully-chosen novel in their backpocket, as if it contained everything they ever wanted to know or read. But, maybe it was just intellectual accessorizing.

I don't know why I wanted this blog. Maybe I felt it was my turn to pollute some public space with my own unnecessary words. Something about blogging reminds me of those concert posters in urban spaces--poles and temporary walls along constructions sidewalks plastered with the same redundant words and images. The weird thing is, each one is designed to catch your attention. The message is written to grab the reader, but wallpapered to the city, they have the impact of background noise. To me, at least. I honestly don't care if anyone reads this. I hope that posting to this blog will feel different to me than those redundant advertisements. I just want a space that makes me accountable to get something written. Everyday. Ok, maybe I want something else.

It's been a long time since I read it, but around sixth grade To Kill A Mockingbird was one of my favorite books. I loved the part where Scout and her brother found the treasures Boo Radley had been hiding in the tree. But far more exciting than that discovery was the notion that he had been putting things there all along. The act of putting something simple out into the world for someone to find (or never find) was thrilling. To me, the finding wasn't nearly as important as the possibility or meaning that is added when something is left behind. It's opening a path for fate to step in. It's faith. My hunch is, it could inspire something even bigger. I don't expect my writing to become one of those backpocket books. I titled my blog "unpublished material" to keep myself honest about it. It's not about anyone reading what I write. I just love the energy that comes from knowing it's out there.