Don't Quit!

"When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit!"
(From Elementary-school memory--but also on a little postcard on my fridge <3)

I'm too tired to move, or pick up the phone or even eat (this is rare). Just drained. For a lot of reasons, but mostly because my little brain has been running on overdrive. So much to take in and process, to spit out answers for. The wedding, my siblings, my stressed-to-the-limit mother, my job, the bills, my sick grandmother, ticking-ticking time bombs, friends, the economy, the dogs, my Love <3, health care legislation, starting a website, freelance writing, MONEY, birthdays, H1N1, oil changes, exercise, chili recipes, laundry and leaves on the carpet (and bills bills bills bills bills). 99.9% percent of all of it, a complete waste of time. Waste of thought, yet I still tossed and turned last night, half praying half freaking out about what today would hold and what hurdle we would be forced to jump over next!

But "It's when things seem worst that you must not quit!" Even though this period in my life isn't "the worst" at all! I am so lucky and blessed! It's just that these days I'm having to play cheerleader a bit more, and I'm trying to stay positive and supportive of everyone and myself, too! Go team! Don't give up! We'll eventually get to right where we're supposed to be!

Rest if you must, but DO NOT QUIT! Rah! Rah! Rah!

The Funnel

funnel, noun, a tube or pipe that is wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, used for guiding liquid or powder into a small opening.

We knew that this phase of the illness would come. When the tears of joy, the strength, the assuring smile would subside and the anger, the doubt would rise to the surface. After all, my grandmother is young, far too young for her life to be drawing to a close. "It's not fair," she says to my mother. "There are still so many things I want to do. I'm not done living my life yet." And despite long leisurely travels on trains across Europe, and lively evenings spent at the Kennedy Center listening to the National Symphony Orchestra, she is overwhelmed by the incompleteness she feels. She longs for the peace brought on by the assurance of a life well-lived.

She feels like she's watching time, opportunity, all of the things she's always wanted to do whip round and round before her eyes like a whirlpool, plummeting downward through the funnel of her life. What little she has left--that she clutches to-- is circling the small hole in the bottom. There is darkness on the other side, but also, there is the most magnificent light.

Since I was young, I've said I think I'm pretty good at learning from other's mistakes, picking up what's left behind from someone else's mess and committing the lesson learned to memory. But how can I apply something of this magnitude to my own life? How can I see through her eyes and glimpse her life--such a magical, colorful, rich life--as inadequate? As a life left unfulfilled. At the very slow rate at which I'm moving, I can't fathom my life, 40 years from now, being anywhere near as wonderful as hers. I'm not open enough, loving enough, faithful enough. Even at 22, my imagination falters in the presence of hers. What can I do except try to read though her disappointment and decipher the lesson before it's too late and all I can do is circle around the inside of the funnel and wait.

When There Are No Words

word, noun, a single distinct meaningful element of speech or writing, used with others to form a sentence and typically shown with a space on either side when written or printed.

My sister Whitney and I play this movie-quote game. We've played it for as long as I remember. I'm pretty sure it started out in the way back of our station wagon on long drives from Massachusetts down to Virginia when we were young. It's easy. You say a quote, the other person names the movie.

-"Clarese, your hair...YOU'RE HERE!"
-It Takes Two

Sometimes we even stump ourselves, and I've been stuck on this particular one for ages. All I know is that Melanie Lynskey says the line, "sometimes life's just hard, for no reason at all." I can hear the twang of her southern accent, the way the sounds of each word glide in to one another smoothly. I can almost see her in some creaky rocking chair on a porch, or in some abandoned field. (I'm suddenly wondering, is it Man in the Moon?) But I can't, for the life of me, pinpoint the movie that it's from.

It gets to me, and leaves me wondering because I find myself repeating it when times are tough. When I get completley blindedsided on a boring Tuesday--the collision of something so tragic, so difficult with the simplicity of a quiet afternoon. Finding out your grandmother has cancer when you're painting your toenails. A phone call on your lesiurely lunch hour from your mother who's hysterically crying. Whether I'm comforting myself or someone else, I just chant that to myself. "Sometimes life's hard, for no reason at all."

I can't directly address my mother losing her mother. I don't know how to grasp that with words, even if I try my hardest and read all of the case studies she emails to me. Not even after all the times she's cried to me. I sit next to her in the car and hear her say, "I don't know what I'll do when she's gone," and all I can do is reach out and touch her hand. I can't change David's face--twisted with worry--and convince him that Amelia will be fine with a line. Even with that line. I say it, then watch it fall flat on its face. Splat! Right onto the ground before me. It's my own mental therapy, but I'm still not getting anywhere, despite it's truth.

Sometime's life IS hard for absolutely NO reason. Whatsoever. You make a plan--a nice one, a thoughtful one--to surprise the person you love, and then watch it crumble to bits. You find out you need four new tires on the same day all of your loan payments are due. You make a promise to someone--something that really means a lot--and you can't follow through with it. Perfectly fine people pass away in their sleep. It rains on the one day you need sunshine. Ticks creep from blades of grass onto a human body and bite.

But it makes no difference how trivial some things may seem to you. "Hard" is in the eye of the beholder. And whether he or she chooses to roll with it or wallow in it, you have to be there with your mental chanting, your hugs and your words--even if you hate the sound they make as they leave your mouth. I'm learning to stop beating myself up for this inadequacy. Sure, there are those with a gift of comforting others, having "the right words" to say, but that doesn't mean they can quell every fear, soothe every ache that stings deep down. There is always a private pain that you take with you into the shower, that you wear even after stripping off all of your clothing that no one can touch. And when someone you love is going through that, you make your own effort. You step outside of your own reach and find the strength to be there. To plug in the empty holes, to provide support where strength is wavering. And when your own resources are drained and you have nothing left, you pray God will give you the substance to hold on.

Mon Bourgogne

I went to France, once. (I took this picture there.) For a brief moment, I was a world traveler, traipsing through the streets of Paris covered in rain and layers of mismatched fabric. Strolling casually without direction in and out of the alleyways of Dijon. I rode trains on the weekends and slept in hostels on thin foam mattresses. Took luke-warm showers and dried my wet body off with the t-shirt I'd just slept in. Everything was simple. Getting up at 8 a.m. after a late night out was just another part of the fluid motion of my days there--long and lazy, beginning each morning with a cup of scalding Darjeeling tea.

There was an energy there, a magic there that scooped each of us out of our insides and left us cold and huddled together on street corners like rounded balls of glacee in a cone. Neopolitan flavored, full of color and life and too much sugar. We gorged on les baguettes et les pains au chocolat. We never felt guilty for all the things we ate. All the deserts. We shook our hips and moved to the rhythm of drum circles late into the night--refusing to stop when they would flash the lights on and off. Refusing to go home, instead chanting slured renditions of "je suis une artiste!" Refusing to remember when the buses stopped running, having to walk the miles and miles home on many late nights--two hazy silhouettes swaying silently together down a cobblestone street.

We spoke le francais with impeccable accents--some better than others. We wore sunglasses on sunny, hungover mornings to streetside cafes. We opened our eyes wide and saw each other. Sometimes we cried. We met in parks and chased pidgeons and told each other secrets. We sang "The Seed" by The Roots with dance moves to go along, and laid in the dark on our backs wishing that we would all still be there when the lights came back on. We ate strawberries and made plans to return, and then never to leave.

But then. We packed our bags and scrambled to find souvenirs for everyone we would return to in the states. We were quiet and distant from each other--preparing to detach after all of our weeks of intermingling. We became separate, single despite the stories we shared, the jokes we still laughed about--now alone in our varying ticket lines.

I still speak to myself in french a lot. I forget the things I saw, and then they come back to me in flashes so striking, causing my brain to derail on account of its forgetfulness. Now that you remember, don't forget, I tell myself. But I know I will, there's no stopping it. Like a long stream of melted ice cream slipping down your arm to your elbow, when there is nothing you can do but let it drip, dropping to the sidewalk below. Small globs of forgotten sweetness trailing behind you as you make your way alone into another cold night.

Pasta: It's What's for Dinner (and breakfast, and lunch, too!

compulsive, adjective, resulting from or relating to an irresistible urge.

For years, I've described my personality as compulsive--whether or not that is the appropriate word for it. All I know is that I fixate on things, dwell on things for too long. If I discover a song I like, I listen to it every chance I get. If I'm wondering about wedding photography, I spend all day on the web researching. If I find that I love the way chicken salad tastes in a pita, I eat it every day for a month. I don't really ever get sick of these things, either. They just eventually fade upon the arrival of a new obsession, a new focus for my compulsion. Instead, I get really in to turkey sandwiches and soup, or I decide to sing along to Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" on repeat instead of Feist's cover of "Inside and Out." (Have now returned to the later. I missed it. I'll listen to it 18 times between now and 5 o'clock.) I like "compulsive" because it suggests a lack of method to its little bit of madness.

But I only like it when I get to push "repeat." I don't like it when current life situation forces me to COMPULSIVELY eat pasta for every meal of the day. Or when it forces me to wear the same black sweater and black flats with holes in the toes to work everyday. And to take you on a drastic turn, I hate the feeling of dread I experience that every passing day only means it's one more giant red "X" on my grandmother's mental calendar. I can't stop thinking about how she must be ticking the days off like an old rusty alarm clock. Begging for one of the bent arms to suddenly snap off and stop moving forward. A silenced alarm. No "snooze" button. When I see her, despite her calm, I know she's wishing for toothpicks to prop her eyes open so she'll never have to sleep, never have to miss a moment of what little time she has left. I'd rather push "pause" or "fastforward" over these parts. Instead they play over and over again in slow motion, where all the faces become distorted with pain and meaningless arguments over what no one can (or will ever) remember.

And I'm left feeling tired and drained. Not hungry for pasta, or Jay-Z or even wedding planning. Empty and blank, just wishing that ticking clock would break.

My Season

blustery, adjective, It looks like a rather blustery day, today
-(of weather or a period of time) characterized by strong winds

I lulled in bed as usual this morning--suspended in that lazy rocking motion, that back and forth between laying down and getting up. After changing my mind a dozen times, finding reasons to snuggle down below the covers, I finally sprung up and my cheeks were the first to feel it. The cool crispness in the air of our house. Not stuffy, or artificially cool, but naturally chilled. Air freshened by the arrival of Fall and all things Fall. Three plump pumpkins on our front porch. Colorful bunches of crunchy leaves in the backyard. That first slap of cool that air smacks your face and neck in the morning, catching you off guard. Almost knocking you off balance.

I felt it this morning on the sidewalk, my scarf trying to catch the flow of the wind and slip off my neck, and it made me stand up straighter. Ah, I said to myself, hello there, old friend. You've come back. After a summer of sticky and sweaty, sunburned and never quite ready for bathing-suits, Fall has tip toed back on stage, puffed up its cheeks up for a string of blustery days, and now stands behind us, or beside us, red in the face and exasperated, ready to blow.

This fall I am feeling differently from any other season I've experienced. As I pull thicker layers out of storage, and make note to put the heavier comforter on the bed, I'm wondering what the heart does to ready itself for the harsh months of a winter full of unknowns. A winter whose white blanket of snow cannot guarantee the continuance of bright green life below. A winter who promises to grab on to each inch of bare skin that peeks out from under warm layers and send you on your way shivering. A winter that will eventually give way to summer, who can't guarantee any specific life either. The change of seasons propels the cycle, assuring us that the bulbs we planted will emerge--seemingly defiant, but not--from the ground and a row of furry babies will be spotted in a nearby pasture. But when they change again, will we all be there to touch one another and breathe in deep sighs of relief. Will we open our eyes again and say Ah, you're still here, too. Thank God.

This pair of seasons approaching is a harsh duo. They are not the sunshine seasons, the emergence-of new-life seasons. They are the brace-yourselves seasons. They bring with them the darkness, the chill, the weakening of the body's defenses. What's the equivalent of a warm sweater for this heart? How do I tell it to rest easy and warm on the inside despite what might happen out here in the world? I know God is the answer. This isn't my "duh" moment. Each verse of encouragement I read, or quote of the virtue of a beautiful life well-lived, provides me momentary relief. A moment's distraction. But I am still anxious, still worriedly making lists in hopes I can achieve my way out of this dread I feel. So if I linger too long in bed, or get caught standing absentmindedly on the sidewalk in the morning, understand I'll be back soon. I'm just sneaking back inside myself, deep down, searching for warmth, pasting scraps across the surface of my heart in a pathetic attempt at armor. Give me some time, forgive me. And please know that I understand only His presence here can lift me up, only the warmth of His hands cupped around my heart can protect it from the worst possible outcome: that when the snow melts, slinking lazily down into the street, an empty patch of ground will appear where grass used to grow, breath used to move in and out, and life used to be.

The Club

You sit on your couch rubbing your own elbows, or you sit in your chair staring at the computer screen, thinking and feeling out this new pain you have acquired without wanting to. It makes you feel heavy, so heavy that after a day of carrying it around, you long for bed. You long for the kind of silence and darkness that numb you. And in this pain, with this pain, surrounded by all of it, you feel so alone. So separate from a greater whole of bodies stamped in imaginary ink with the word "healthy." You feel so singular, so isolated, maybe even unique.

But you couldn't be more wrong.

I mean this, not distastefully, but truthfully: I feel like I have just been accepted into an exclusive club. From the first dear friend, to the last stranger who found out about my grandmother's illness, the reception I've felt, the comfort I've received is rooted in a painful understanding. A too-close-for-comfort grasp on what it feels like--that slight yet piercing ache--to learn that you or someone you love has cancer. I know I have been so blessed, that God has shielded me and much of my family from illness, but I didn't realize until now just HOW blessed we have been and continue to be.

My friends have lost friends, grandparents, cousins. My friends have been fighting cancer battles, wars against mortality, for years. I just never realized it. I was never able to comprehend it. I never even thought about it.

Loss of all shapes, sizes and magnitudes is happening every minute, every second. As I type these words, breath is slipping out, a body is losing its footing, a fragile hand is going limp. We are constantly losing those who mold us, inspire us, challenge us, even those who give us the hardest time. And none of us is alone in our loss. None of us is alone in our fear. I feel the perfect opposite of what I thought I would feel.

I feel bonded to new friends, old friends, strangers in a way I struggle to describe. We are so many different people, living in so many different places, under varying circumstances, but don't we all love the same? Hurt the same? Ache the same? We cry the same. When we lose someone, the loss we feel is the same. And I find so much comfort in that togetherness. Despite the fact that it was born out of shared tears and heartache, it is so secure. Is it possible that our collective hurt is so tightly weaved that we produce warmth? All I know is that my heart is warmed at the time an old friend takes to share her story, or the thoughtfulness of a quick call just to check up on me. The strength of that kind of love amazes me. It restores my faith on days when I'm feeling like I just need some inspiration. It ignites the passion within me to write. It makes me so thankful to be blessed with my family and friends. And despite the circumstances, to now be a part of a group that is filled with such tremendous love and support that I feel anything but alone.

Word Play

P.S. Miss Triple Word Score Lost lost to David at Scrabble on Saturday night. I'll chalk it up to the fact that he's brilliant (a 54-point word!). Regardless, must marry him now. <3

Amazing Grace

phantasmagoria, noun, what happened next was a phantasmagoria of horror and mystery.
-a sequence of real or imaginary images like that seen in a dream.

It's been nearly a month since my last post. I have no excuse for that, except to say that I go through intense cycles of obsessing over and then hiding from this thing. I'm finding that I'm a lot lazier than I ever imagined.

A lot has changed over the course of a month, and from where I sit today, I honestly wish I had written earlier. I wish--per Emily's request-- that I had a blog entry for every day since I got engaged. I GOT ENGAGED! I have dreamed about marrying David forever, and it's all coming true. Each day that I make small decisions or big ones, or look at wedding photography, I close my eyes and envision our day--envision myself as Lia Dangelico--and it's such a beautiful, powerful feeling. There is no one I would rather grow old and wrinkly with. There is no one who makes me feel more beautiful and intelligent. There is no one who makes me feel more safe. September 4, 2010 we'll be married down on the Carolina coast. :-)

I wish I had written sooner because this sort of thing deserves no damper. No overshadowing. But a thin gray cloud has inched its way across the sky overhead. My sweet Grandmother Grace has been diagnosed with cancer. Last night I sat on the couch talking to her and her voice sounded the same. It was smooth and strong, sing-songy as it always is. In my perpetually 10-year-old mind I was shocked that she sounded the same. Shouldn't she sound weak, sick? I thought.

No matter how much you study cancer, or wear the pink ribbon or run for "the cause," you can never be prepared enough to hear that word attached to someone you love. Cancer belongs to your co-worker's mother. Cancer belongs to the girl who sat in front of you in poetry class with all that pain. Cancer is ugly, tacky and my Grandmother is the picture of beauty and elegance. My Grandmother can separate one classical composer from the next. My Grandmother can tell you which flowers bloom along the George Washington Parkway and when. My Grandmother can carry out a conversation in French with the most remarkable accent. My Grandmother says words like "phantasmagorical." Her house is filled with stunning glass birds in every color that catch the sunlight when it pours in the windows and send rainbows dancing around her living room. When we were young, she would gather my sisters and I together on the couch or in bed and tell us enchanting stories of Herkimer, the boisterous mouse who lived under her steps. In her tales, Herkimer only emerged at night to go rummaging through her kitchen cupboards scavenging for snacks. But he was everywhere. Anytime there was a spill or one of her precious birds turned up missing a beak or a wing, she would smile kindly and whisper down to us. "Herkimer, that rascal! He must have taken a bit of Ruby's wing to give to his wife for their anniversary!" And she would dry our premature tears and rub our backs until we had forgotten the moment of fear.

I am trying to breathe deeply and patiently wait to hear what the doctor says on Thursday about treatment and a plan of action. But I am anxious at the thought of losing her. Anxious at the thought of eyeing an empty seat next to my Grandaddy Bill on my wedding day. Scared to imagine my own mother without a mother anymore. I know this is moving too quickly, but even she has said, "if this is my time to go and be with the Lord, I couldn't be happier." I guess, as always, my only fear with death is for who is left behind. Grandmother Grace and Grandaddy Bill are a package deal. She flutters from place to place, singing her praises on each person she talks to, her eyes twinkling, her voice just above a whisper, while Grandaddy Bill plops into a chair in the corner, one eye squinting to look into the viewfinder of his camera, his nose and mouth hidden as he bellows out "One, two, three" and snaps one of a million pictures. There is no one without the other in my mind. And yes, despite their fussing and his grumpiness, the idea of him standing alone just makes my heart ache. Would one still exisit without the other? Will Grandaddy Bill still take pictures? Will Granddadyy Bill still crack stupid jokes just to make us giggle? I know God brings the joy in his heart, but I also know that my Grandmother has brought him more wonder and happiness than one man deserves.

I'm getting ahead of myself, but I know no other way. I'm afraid of an attacker so strong, one that has taken so many lives. I'm trying to find rest in God, find my center, my peace in him. I know he has the power to move any mountain. One far bigger than this one. In the meantime, I'm planning to be by her side often, smooth the soft creases on her hands with my fingertips, listen to her fingers dance up and down the piano. And when I think of her there in her livingroom, in their home of so many warm memories of first borns and holiday meals, playing her piano, I imagine her face tilted up toward the window, completely aglow with early-morning sunlight. Her whole body is singing, from her eyes to her fingers. And as she gazes out into the day unfolding, up, up into the sky, I know her ears are piqued to hear that Voice--whether calling her name, reaching out for her, or fading a bit and gently easing her onward. I know no matter what, the music will remain, playing over and over again, and we will always feel her there.

My Disconnect

divine, adjective, heroes with divine powers-of, from, or like God or a god

As I get older, wiser, I'm realizing I'm bad at lettings things go. But, not the usual things you would think. I'm good at letting toxic friends go. I'm good at (eventually) letting lazy boyfriends go. I'm good at letting bad habits go, or at least saying I'm going to. (No more fast food, no more fast food.) I'm pretty okay at letting stupid arguments go. What I'm not good at is letting moments go. Six minutes I spent reading (and crying throughout) this article. 3 minutes watching (and laughing hysterically at) this video. Moments when I am flooded with so much emotion I can't breathe. Moments that, within the confines of my mind, never end.

Whether I'm sitting in traffic, or staring at my computer screen, I am still stuck in these moments. I blame my bad driving record, my lack of productivity on them. I blame the fact that I often don't feel "quite right" on them. The pain of a splitting headache is really the image of the author's husband, standing in the kitchen doorway that morning. Flashes of the way he looked: clean-shaven and wide-eyed. Haphazardly consumed with love for this woman he shared almost 40 years of his life with. And the dizzying spell of nausea is really King Curtis' triumphant return, and declaration of war to preserve "Havin' Fun," and chicken nuggets. His high-pitched voice layered with such conviction, such supposed wisdom, promising that he will not bow to Joy's rules.

I should be able to let the video end, dry my tears and fold the rest of the laundry. I should be able to click out of the article page, press my cursor onto the small red "X" in the top corner of my screen and get back to work. Go back to my life. Therein lies my trouble though, my struggle.

I don't want to detach from these things. From the warmth of the purest forms of love, from the most hysterical laughter. I like to swim around inside them--reeling and reveling--so far from so much of the sad reality that surrounds me. One of lessons learned and loneliness, where as we get older, our growth isn't measured only in pencil marks on a door frame, or in numbers and letters, but in our capacity to hurt one another. As children, with soft, plush palms, we hit to get our way and yell out strings of meaningless language to hurt, but we fall short. We are picked up, brushed off, bandaged up and sent on our way--blissfully unaware of the pain we were so quick to release, to forget. As adults, with thicker skin and manipulation, we can see so clearly--so quickly-- how to get our way. And that's what we want. Some still use their fists despite the fact that most of us frown upon it; though we are all hard-hitters in our own, secretive ways. In our lying and in our selfishness, we deliver far more fatal blows than our fists could.

So I close my eyes and latch on to these moments so desperately. So fully that a part of me may slip away in exchange, but I let those morsels of myself drift off--as I do so many other things--without worry or discomfort. And I let out a deep sigh or inhale a strong shake of laughter in hopes that I've learned to let the bad things go. In confidence that I'm embracing only what's good--and holding on.