Mwah.

We Shouldn't, But We Shall

I am going to do that horrible, horrible thing of making myself write a blog today. I have run out of every idea for killing time at work, my boss is gone for the day. What's a gal (with a fake job) to do?!

I'm bored at work, not challenged, not stimulated, and so I often sit myself down and ask myself: self, what do you really want to do? Where do you really want to be? Until very recently, I had my answer down pat. I want to start out entry level at a book publishing firm and work my way up in the editorial team. It's general, but yet specific. I know I want to be FORCED to read with my red pen all day. I want to be inundated with 500-page novels that carry on and on, without a likable character. While I know that that's still what I want to do, I'm left to wonder if that will ever happen (unless I'm willing to pick up and move to NYC). Reality plays a big role in all of this. Dream all you want, dream beautiful, magical dreams and work to make them a reality. But these dreams must fit into the scheme of your life, the capacity of your career, your mind. (Unless of course you're someone annoying who wins the lottery, or gets picked up to be Ronnie's new love interest on Season 2 of The Jersey Shore... I could go on, but I won't.)

You need passion to make it, they say. Along with hard-work, dedication. But aside from all of that, I still ask, what do you really want to do, self? Is it books? I can dive into the books that I WANT to everyday after work, everyday on the weekends. I can print out manuscripts and comb through them on my lunch break. What really matters to me? People.

My love for writing is undeniable, but I can't help but wonder, is it the people I get to (and have gotten to) write about what I love about it? Do I love writing oh-so-much when I'm writing a review of an Outdoor Shooting game for work, or a short piece on the 5 Best Purses for Your iPhone? I don't love it then. I run from it then. I avoid emails from my editor then. I love it when I'm learning who Maggie is as I create her. As I learn she is a recently-deceased but eternally beloved mother of two little girls, an amazingly captivating and passionate wife to a man who is struggling with her death, with the concept of moving on to raise his two little girls without her. That's when I'm enamored with the craft, with the placement of the words, the movement of the language, the image of a daughter's small fingers tracing the veins on her father's wrists. I love the people, the characters, and I don't even need to create them. They're all around: quirky and awkward and loveable yet disgusting and intriguing: John, the director of the Indoor Tanning Association of America; Henrietta Lacks whose "immortal cell line" has served as the foundation of most medical research done over the last 50 years; Hugo, the man arrested in Dupont Circle for jogging naked one Spring morning.

So whether I get where I "want" to be or not, I will make it with people around me to learn about and laugh with. There's no limit to what I can be and where I can go if my biggest expectation is that they'll be people there with interesting stories who need someone to listen and to love them.

More of Life Lately

February 19, 2010...she closed her eyes, gathered herself and floated up into heaven. Here my mom, aunts, sisters and I wore some of her many colorful rings in celebration of a life well-lived, her breathtakingly beautiful life. I find myself missing her everywhere, standing in a crowded bar, someone pushes by me abruptly, coldly, and my mind tricks me. She's still here, it says to me. Just there, down 495 a ways...go see for yourself. But I don't, knowing the voice is wrong. Knowing she's gone for good. And anyway, it's too late, I'm already standing in sun blinding, tears streaming into my watered-down drink.



The weekend of her funeral, all of my sisters (except Eliza) slept under the same roof...as if we were once again little girls, crowding into one over-sized bed in her house for some holiday, or some weekend when my mother needed to get away. Herkimer stories and the smell of her books, and nightgowns and fresh flowers lulling us to sleep.






We've been having fun. Relaxing, sleeping a lot. Making mixed drinks for the fun of it. Watching the Oscars and catching up on all the movies we've missed. We are planning for the future. Planning our wedding. Looking for houses. Wanting adventure--a new city?! I feel so confident and happy when we're together...nothing can touch us, hinder us, knock us down. Together we are tough to beat. So proud of how far we've come!



So proud of my bebe girl for getting into grad school at Texas State outside of Austin, Texas. I just wish it wasn't so far away. I am proud beyond words, happy for her beyond words. I know one day I will be begging to be her book tour manager or something, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. Loss has taken on new meaning for me lately. I don't want to lose anything. Not a receipt. Not an old photograph. Especially not my best friend. I'm afraid to. Afraid of the disappearing act. But it's not just fear, it's regret. Guilt. Of time wasted. Of not taking the time to appreciate what you had when it lived right across the living room. I will never get that time back and I have to live with that. As I grown up, I will learn to be content with a friendship held together by trust from years of friendship, hard laughter (even when we wanted to cry) and good old Skype. :)

Me...lately. Stretched thin and anxious, but facing forward, sun on my face, a smile. Looking to the future, trying not to miss everything that whizzes by me: Rye's soccer games, "Fishing trips" with 'Liza, sitting in the sun with my Mom, talking to my sisters, hugging my Dad, holding David's face between my hands, snuggling with my puppy, listening to Cullan play the piano, visiting my grandfathers, writing poetry, hearing about a friend's day, the politics, the tears, the moments, the fights, the jokes, the movies, the sunshine, the sunshine... In, then out. I take deep breaths and say a prayer for the people I love, for the days, the life ahead of me. For the wisdom to take the best path and to stay on it. For the joy to make the best of every situation. For the faith to walk--with purpose--into what is unknown and figure it all out as I go along.

My Self, Lately

Lately, I find myself missing the people from my past that I never took the time to get to know. The handsome, popular boys that I ignored in high school, but that I often thought of as I laid awake in the darkness, sleepless my in bed on school nights. Wrapped in my sheets, I orchestrated outlandish situations in my mind that this one and that one was in love with me, but couldn't bring himself to reveal love for a girl who was too tall, with hair too long and too little make up. I would image that somewhere, within walking distance of my own window, they, too laid awake in their mothers' houses, thinking of ways to get my attention, to start a pointless conversation. Perhaps I was foolish--and still am--in thinking they were as self-conscious, as neurotic as I was. They already had the attention, the looks, the allowance that I lacked--and secretly longed for.

Now I wonder, would it be absurd to drop them a line? I'm sorry we never talked more, how are you? To offer my congrats at finding that one is getting married or going to be an uncle? So happy for you... as if I were an old friend. But I am not. Would they instantly long to make a connection, ask me to tell them about my life, day by day since we donned maroon gowns and caps and climbed the stairs of our school for the last time? Or would they take my words, my overdue effort with the rest of the congratulations, conversations and confrontations of the day, and rinse them off with gentle soap in an early evening shower. Again, would they wonder about me? Do they, like me, ever wonder: what is she doing now? Why was she always so cold?

I am foolish to think that such a missed connection could ever be patched back together. Two sets of arms strained to reach behind them, like a driver's blind hands reaching for some object in the back seat--just out of reach. Not with all the passing of time, the states, continents, the pressure, the lovers with names we've never heard that have come and gone.

I am foolish to think that such a missed connection could be addressed when such a thing isn't even allowed with an old love. Someone who knew you, who laid next to you on other sleepless nights when you weren't thinking about boys in your high school class or anyone else for that matter. You cannot contact this person to say, "I'm sorry. You were right. I hope you meet someone. I hope you're happy." All of the things you meant to say when you had the chance but did not, cannot be said now, just to ease your own mind. Just to quell your selfish desires for ultimate "rightness" or "kindness" or some version of karma in reverse.

So I guess it's time to, as Sally from When Harry Met Sally would say, "just let it lie." Except I think this, type this, say this without the scowl on my face that she wore. Instead my face shows an assurance and a small hint of sadness--for a sense of youthfulness lost, for the idea of missed opportunities: for a time when I was a small fish in a pond of 300-or-so others. With fins pressed closely together, we swam through the waters, dodged (or tripped over) the same rocks and obstacles. We mourned our super stars and huddled together to watch those buildings fall. Will I ever belong to such a pack again? Experience such strength in such numbers? A small body surrounded by a sea of faces and personalities, a sea of walls on either side of me. Shelter. Odd, but I suddenly feel overcome with the need to thank them, stop hating them for those four short years we suffered through together.

And I make a mental note to think more highly of them (and myself) the next time, and to watch more closely for the connections that are slipping by me each day and to remember that sometimes it's all right to just miss and miss and miss.

Mother Bird

Wandering an empty aisle,
crowded with items, I pause,
spotting a box with a small bird perched,
its eyes fixed on mine. Metal eyes twinkling.
In an instant, I see her there in her living room
scattered with colored glass birds,
rainbows cascading down the walls.

Will we think of her, mother,
Each and every time we see a bird?
Is it on purpose, do you think?
Hand-picked in her youth?
An assurance that she will never be forgotten?

“She is all the beauty I have ever known,” you say,
my face strained before you.
And I nod, understanding, but say nothing in reply.

Mother, you are mine, not your own,
who fades so quickly, so soundlessly (almost)
with the passing of days and the change
of seasons. You are cold, now. Numb, now.
Worried, as I am, of what’s to come.
Of a lull in laughter.
Of a lack of color in a room.

Now we know, after our many years of wondering:
death comes, not in a flash,
not in a moment of quick tragedy.
Death moves quiet and calculated,
lives multiplied, divided, taken away.
We often try to guess and fall short.
God sets the date.

I feel your fear, overwhelmingly.
Of needing an answer but having no one to ask.
Of finding your childhood home empty.
Of running out of time to say many things.
Of having to fly alone.

But, Mother, you have raised your own eggs.
From infancy, we rose sturdy, to float alongside you.

---

Birds, earth’s beaked angels, take flight
tracing our footsteps—as she will. A bread crumb here,
another there. Then—nothing.
Nothing but falling feathers,
and off in the distance, the sound of flapping wings.

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.