Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue Christmas

No matter how many times I type it out, it always seems like too many "blue-s." Anyway, happy holidays. It's already snowed here, there is a Christmas tree in my living room and David has convinced me to give him two of his Christmas presents already. But hey, the boy's persistent, and I DID make him watch every Christmas movie we own all in one weekend. He deserved it.

What happened to my steady strength? Gone with the warm weather, I suppose, and I am left feeling frail, easily moved: a push over where strong legs once stood. It doesn't take much for my eyes to fill slowly from the edges, forming huge gray, dripping puddles where my eyeliner and saline meet. Sentimentality that I would usually scoff at, grabs me, shakes me up. Stirred, I am a mixture of emotion and logic and caffeine.

Sleeping isn't settling me down. Six hours or 16, I "wake" feeling restless, annoyed. I look asleep, but my head is swimming in a dream. My mother is there. An old love is there. A wedding is taking place. There is a tug of war, a bath tub of freezing cold water and I am being plunged in, then out, again and again. Six hours or 16, I "wake" and dress for work silently, avoiding the bathroom altogether. My car is stubborn to start, but eventually it does and I ride to work with the news, a story of a whole diner in Pennsylvania where one customer's generosity of paying for a stranger's meal turned into a five-hour game of "pay it forward." I cry alone in the driver's seat.

And all day that vision, the image of that tree in my mother's house sits at the back of my throat. The vision of our Christmas tree choked with white-strands and mismatched lights. A pink where purple should be, a sea-green where blue should be. All of them where our normal, simple white lights should be. Silver Christmas balls crowded by small sparkling birds where our delicate and precisely placed ornaments should be. Bunches of fake flowers puff out from inside the tree, awkwardly protruding into the red living room where dead space should be. A violent screach of noise filling the room where soft Christmas songs should be.

It should be: My mother prodding the tree, saying gently to her helper who extends a handmade ornament, "No, I don't think so, it doesn't quite go with our theme this year." It should be: A radiant display of simplicity and class, "It could be straight out of Southern Living" says a guest. It should be: Bing Crosby singing "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas," my mother humming the tune softly to herself, her eyes squinting as she steps back from the tree, then twinkling in approval.

It is: A tangled mess of glittery ornaments, white wiring and gray tears. It is: A tangled mess of hysteria. "My mother holds all the beauty that my world has ever known. Without her, there is no more beauty left," my mother says, poking another cluster of salmon-colored flowers. Blue lights this year, because she's "in mourning," turned into a rainbow of color and light, tiny bulbs shooting small colored shapes onto the ceiling above.

I step out into a cold Virginia night in mid-December. Through the living room windows I see her there, standing before a twinkly, towering tree, both so much alive. And now I understand, now I see its beauty and I go back inside to her.

She is nodding to herself. "Gawdy," she whispers, and reaches for another string of Christmas lights.

I'm Sorry. I Can't. Don't Hate Me.

I'm horrible at keeping up with this thing. Despite my desire to write daily, I always feel that I'm coming up short with things to say. I'm always too worried it will seem contrived or pathetic. In summation: If I would just write as much as I think, I'd be golden.

change, verb, to make or become different. (A proposal to change the law.)

So, it's been a while. The days slide by and things change, but thankfully my Grandmother is still with us. Thanksgiving this year was definitely the most memorable of my life, as over fifty of my family members gathered at my Uncle's house for a full day of food, music and catching up. It was so calming to see my Grandmother swaying in a soft two step with one of her brothers, their cheeks red and wet with tears. This year I am overwhelming thankful for family, as dramatic and crazy as it may be. I'm thankful for the comfort of knowing I am never alone, no matter where I am.

Wedding planning is coming along smoothly as well. Save the Dates are in envelopes and ready to be sent out. Deposits have been paid. I couldn't thank my lovely lovely Emily enough for her tireless love and support. Bless her for humoring me in hour-long conversations on wedding photographers and color schemes. I'd be lost without her. But really, what else is a bestest friend for? HAH! And David has endured the same, only more often and in person. Bless him, too. <3

Secretly, I'm missing school just a little these days. As talks of my friends going to grad school come up, I think back to my jam-packed days of papers and deadlines and lectures. I miss being held to a standard--whether it was personal or based on a syllabus. I miss turning in work and getting it back with a grade on it, with feedback. I miss "you can do better, so do it" and "incredible writing, here." I miss As and Bs that reinforced the idea that hard work pays off, that it was all worth it.

I used to move at lightening speeds. My brain worked more sharply, spouting off answers and ideas. My fingers struck the keys more quickly, moving as if imaginary tigers chased after them. My feet were blurred in a constant state of motion, dashing up & down, here & there. Like lightening, I felt electric and just as important. These days, I'm a slow bug. Rather than nimble, I feel wide and lazy--a too-full glass of water. I feel so uninspired, so content to just sit and shake my head rather than jump and shout and pound my fists. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I don't see the sun most days.

My normal annoyances remain: Carrie Prejan, et al., my job, stomach chub, having to defrost frozen meat and never having the money to, well, DO anything.

My normal obsessions remain: David's face, my puppy, babies, weddings, $1 bills, books and guacamole.

Still want to move to a remote island and live of the "fatta tha land." Still want to eliminate hunger and homelessness and divorce and sadness and disappointment. It seems little has changed, yet everything always does. And no matter how hard you try to keep it all at bay: your hair is turning gray, new rumors are being spread about the President, someone doesn't love someone else anymore and you're long overdue for an oil change.

My Bad Behavior

It's never a good idea to eat seven or eight boxes of Hot Tamales. Even if they're the small, seemingly insignificant ones. Bad for your teeth, bad for the back of your throat. Just bad. Your entire mouth will be left burning for the remainder of the day. When you eat your turkey sandwich, Hot Tamales will be there. When you munch on your organic carrots, faint traces of HTs will appear in every bite.

This isn't my only bad behavior lately. I've been letting the laundry collect into long piles on the floor. Baskets and bags half-full sit in what would be wide-open walkways--now crowded by mess. Pajamas are on the bathroom floor, looking as if they've just been stepped out of despite the fact that they've been there since last week.

I've also been spending far too much time looking at puppy websites. Squealing over adorable combinations of breeds that were never meant to mix. (Probably). I'm wanting to buy another dog (or twelve), quit my job and go back to France.

No, I'm not well at all. Quite sick, actually.

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.