family

Thanksgiving lunch was served at four. Nothing about this is uncharacteristic of my family. We say get there at two but expect festivities (namely, eating) to occur hours later. The stickler in me wishes things would start on time, if only so that we can eat more later without feeling uncomfortably gluttonous. Each adult brought a side prepared in a hurry. Most sides included cheese. Let the applause begin.
I love my family - that we regularly meet and share meals with each other is a gift. The room is all  honesty, freedom, comfort. Mother cooks. The children poke fun at her and each other. We pick at the preparations. She swats our hands, and fathers. We gather around the counter and open the fridge out of habit. We eat. Second helpings are encouraged. Eventually, our stomachs are too full. We recline on the floor or couch or stairs. Some change into pajamas reserved for this transition. We watch a movie. Some people talk over the movie. Some people are annoyed by this. None of it matters. These are our rituals, the symbols of our closeness. Birthdays around our wooden dining table in a dim room, lit only by candles and cheerful singing is a sacred experience. My family meets and shares meals despite the transgressions of the past. That communion can occur in a house filled with memories of regret, pain, betrayal, and dishonesty, is beyond me. I give thanks.

and walked away.

While in line, a ruddy, greying man meant to walk past me and to the restroom. I smiled at him. He veered towards me, leaned in, mumbled. Not understanding, I asked him to repeat himself. 

Have you spoken to him? I said No, I hadn't, I'm sorry. His faded, yellowing eyes held mine. He turned and went to the restroom. A foul smell lingered - the accusing specter of homelessness. 

I ordered tea because it was inexpensive. As is my ritual, I removed the cup and let the tea cool. I sipped slowly, with long spaces between each, and typed responses to teachers and supervisors. I listened to music and people-watched. 

I did not see him leave, but he must have. He reentered. His flannel coat was thick and red, accentuating his broad, imposing posture. His hair was matted, greasy, long. He sat down one table over, uninvited by the bald professor working across from him. Shifting uneasily, he went to the barista, mumbled, and returned to his seat with a pen and napkin. I did not vary my attention under his gaze. I typed but could see his quick, frenzied strokes. He stopped, folded the napkin, and pushed in his chair. He walked toward me, set the napkin on the edge of my table and left. We did not exchange words or glances. Intrigued, I opened the napkin: a simple, rude profile of a woman in blue ink. I finished my tea but continued my work. 

Ten minutes later he returned to his spot with another napkin. The professor had left, leaving him room to hunch forward protectively around his work. This time he gives the drawing to a rosy and tired young lady. He hands it to her and leaves. She watches him, puzzled. I packed my laptop into a borrowed case and made my way home with the napkin folded carefully in my hand. 

Gifts, especially those unsolicited and unexplained, are suspect and confusing. In an age of false generosity seeking recognition or payback, gifts are not received without question, voiced or not. This man gave me a drawing. He did not address me or explain it to me. He did not ask me for something in return. He did not make a big deal out of it. He set it on the edge of my table and walked away. I didn't even say thank you. 

Cheers to hot tea.

Cheers to strangers and strange encounters.

Cheers to a new (old) way of giving. 

On grooming. and usual update.

I curled my fingers into a ball, that protective impulse seen in the smallest of beloved insects: the roly poly. My unsightly nails were magnified by a projector onto a screen. We were reviewing two-step equations and there were my nails beside the problems - a chipped periwinkle polish, revealing yellow stains, and a thin line of dirt. Growing up, my brother would chide all the sisters about this habit. "That's so tacky. Clean your nails, geez!" He is fifteen years my elder and promoted cleanliness, good posture, and above all, life experience through handwork and calculated risk. Many years later, I still think of him when my polish chips.

It took me two weeks, and two more magnifications to clean them, trim them, file them, buff them, and happily apply two coats of oxblood red. Certainly, there is nothing wrong with chipped polish. And, yet, I'm sure it means something. My chipped nail polish is a symbol of my busy life. I have no time to care for myself in these small ways. I have no time to smooth out my wrinkled life and present it as refined, elegant, cultivated. I have no time to enjoy grooming my eyebrows, shaving my legs, maintaining my nails. And so, I am hairy and unkempt. There are worse things. I have confessed. I am free.

Grooming and cleanliness - I sense beneath it all we are asserting control, asserting an image. Our feeble fight for inner peace and against chaos, busyness, judgments, and expectations by applying a four coats of polish (one base coat, two color, one top coat).  I know the world is not divided into mutually exclusive choices, but, alas, it is too much to keep up with. I didn't shower for two days straight. I accept the chaos and grimaces with a glass of wine and platter of cheese and a sleepy, lazy morning. I'd rather have those. I have confessed. I am free. And when there is time for grooming and cleaning, I will do those with pleasure.

***

My nails are chipping again. It's okay. I was a lot of dishes. We have no dishwasher. We are the dishwashers. Today we slept in until 8:15a and didn't get up until 8:45a. We moved slowly, laughing at our reluctance to get up, at our sluggish pace. Rudy arrived to work on time. With all our happy plodding, we've never been late. We attribute these miracles of promptness to a fortuitous, unseen twilight zone. It is crazy, we laugh.

I finished Sylvia's correspondence from 1952-1963, published by her mother. The woman was erratic and tirelessly optimistic. She felt things deeply. She was sure of her talent and was always sending out manuscripts, persistent in the face of rejection. She planned for her rich, fruitful future. She confided these plans to those closest her. How could she meet such an end when she approached life with such brave, resilient hope? I love Sylvia. Her end grieves me. Her life and work stir me. To think, (to always think!), she is one person in the history of the overpopulated, ever-growing world! I am mystified by suffering and hope and the decision to live and by the Sylvias who teeter between it all.

Cheers to grooming out of pleasure, rather than fearful impulse.
Cheers to happy plodding.
Cheers to the twilight zone.
Cheers to all those who teeter bravely.

seems appropriate.

I often, that is to say, always, dreamt about my middle name having an 'e' at the end. The silly dreams of little girls are rarely forgot. I read Anne of Green Gables and her name, 'e' included, represented her belonging, imagination, wit, work-ethic, and charm. I practiced in perfectly rounded cursive my name with 'Anne' as the centerpiece. Ann, sans the coveted 'e,' seemed unfinished. I would compare it to the awful, unforgivable misspelling of 'and' or 'an' - my middle name was a serious concern. As years have passed friends have encouraged me in this plight. "You can legally change it, you know." I won't. It is the name I was given. Changing my given name seems like a rejection of family, heritage, tradition. I love that it is something I had no say in, that my parents discussed, and gave me. Like all things in life, it is a gift. Turns out Ann isn't bad at all. See?

For a few years I have considered introducing myself as Ann to new people, colleagues, etc. I've determined that I want to be called this in my adult years. It fits the me I am becoming. Stacey will remain for the closest, Stacey Ann for parents, only. These parameters preserve what is sacred, familiar. Ann is not so much a new identity - I believe in integration, above all - but, well, at twenty-four, it seems appropriate. I am changing, slowly like trees in a desert come autumn.


***

In other news, I am taking a note from Good Will Hunting and getting an education from the public library. I spent much of my childhood and adolescence in book stores (new and used), but didn't frequent the library often. My parents have always preferred to buy things. I take after them and, yet, I am persuaded by my poverty and thirst. I have no money to buy the books I want. I have no interest in wilting, withering, or waning. So, I borrow. The subjects I hope to explore in the next season include feminism, architecture, and orthodoxy. I am thrilled.

Lastly, I promise, reading Sylvia Plath's collected correspondence has nourished me. I find a friend in her and her wild, undulating emotions. I am inspired by her impulse to communicate, learn, and work. I have yet to finish and will be sad when I do.

and finally, I am.

I greet the sun because I woke to the rain. The first of November inaugurated the beginning of Autumn with its heavy, sporadic rain and diffused sunlight. Thanks be to God.

A few weeks ago, Rudy and I made it to the East coast. Here is a haphazard collection of memories:

We endured uncomfortable flights and arrived tired and irritated, regaining our kindness upon seeing friends. The sheer density of greens was overwhelming. We were greeted by an impossibly funny, hard working and generous family. Everyone at work for a wedding two days away: laying brick, hanging lights, building a dance floor, setting tables. We worked hard, ate hard, laughed hard. I, in true fashion, eventually cried hard, loosing my footing and slipping into a bout of insecurity, self-loathing, and fear. It is a seismic problem, a symptom of the past. That I still experience these ruptures in my happy present can be unnerving and shameful - but ruptures are to be expected, nothing to be done about them. Can't go over them. Can't go around them. Can't go under them. Gotta go through them.

I met girls I would have otherwise never met. They could have been great companions in another life. We went to the same college, but I once believed I was an undesirable, damned to loneliness. I blame this belief for denied opportunities of friendship and growth. I am changing. We drank sangria, white russians and laughed. I felt, briefly, that I was on Sex and the City. (gasp!) I had never experienced this light hearted, girl time slinking from bar to bar, avoiding slimy, older men. My car went home early. Just as well, I was tired. Such fun, though I lost $35 worth of underwear. Baltimore took my gift. Paris took my sweater. Death Valley took my phone. I am constantly losing things in places I visit. I suppose good times cost more than air fare.

The entire wedding day was sublime. The confession of love is great, the vow to keep the other 'til the end is better. It is a promise we've no business making but make all the same. It is a promise we cannot keep perfectly, but will to keep anyways. Two sets of parents, wedded over 20 years each, gave their children to each other to make the same wild, impossible, difficult promise they had. Their own lives proof of how wild, impossible, and difficult it is - also, of how fantastically transforming it is. The promise makes us better. We ate, drank, laughed, danced. There was glitter. There were sparklers. There was my colorful dress. I was happy to be passing through Baltimore with Rudy, witnessing the lives of committed family and friends - and being welcomed in.

We left the next morning to Upstate New York. We stayed with Rudy's aunt and uncle. They are artists, careful thinkers, collectors. When it is quiet, they fill in the lull with muted laughter and mumbling. They introduced us to more good food. We walked. We crossed the Eerie Canal. We thumbed through thrift stores, book stores, antique shops. We felt at home. We kept accidentally sleeping in, jet lag and all. We watched Walking Dead. We learned about each other. I have family on the East coast now. Baffling.

I find I am constantly being asked to open up my life, and finally, I am. My soul is expanding in my early-twenties. It is making room for others - miracle of miracles!
Cheers to making room.
Cheers to letting people in.
It has been so lonely in years past and remains lonely, at times. But there is a marked difference. Thanks be to God.

a small win

I walked into the office.
"Rudy's been in an accident. I need to leave."
A hug, her face forming a question.
"He's okay, just scratches but stranded. The car is in bad shape."
"Go, we can handle the rest of the day. Let me know what happens, friend."

The news came between duties. I gathered my things. It was only 9:00 am.
Would I get paid for today? I didn't clock out. Is this unethical? I bet it's hot as hell in my car.

He climbed out of his passenger side window on a busy street to call the police. Three cars involved, his the only one to turn over. The police report took over a month. Uncertainty is a hateful place to occupy. We considered other transportation options. The bus, even for it's short trek, would take almost two hours. Cycling seemed improbable in August's unrelenting heat. We decided on carpooling. Early, sleepy mornings. Late, anxious nights.

Uncertainty was banished in the name of cold, hard truth. The fault was his. Insurance couldn't help with anything. His car, faithful as she had been, was not worth the money to fix her. She is sitting in our garage - accumulating dust and bugs, no doubt.  His khakis were stained with car oil.
When it rains, it pours.

Carpooling has become a way of life. The mornings are earlier and sleepier. The nights are less anxious. I got paid that day. It was a small win in the wake of great loss.

***

School is on hold. An MFA is silly, anyways. I will write on my own time. I will read on my own time.  An MFA is not magic. If I am not motivated to do the hard work before the program, what will keep me engaged with the literary world afterward? Thank you King, Dillard, Lamott, Bradbury, Zinsser, and Plath. If I've learned anything from reading you, it's that the daily hard work matters.

Cheers to the daily grind.
Cheers to family and friends who ease the burden of the daily grind.
Cheers to almost six months of marital adventures.

god knows

It's been four months since I've posted anything on here. So, in an effort to clear the webs and wipe the dust that have accumulated in my webspace - here I am, writing. Well, posting. Who said anything about actual tortuous, edited writing?

I've planned a wedding. I married the most handsome, hairy, steadfast man. I have gone to Paris and had crepes with aforementioned man. I started a job I swore I wouldn't go back to. I reconsidered where I will work come September (end of August?). I have almost perfected my cat eye. I have continued to walk in Bradbury's world's of Martians, rocket men, immortality, and death. Sylvia Plath's life is next on my list. I cannot get enough of Annie Dillard. She is a yogi. I sit and listen.

I am going to get my MFA in Creative Writing. Who am I writing for? Myself, mostly. Does this mean I am selfish? self-centered?

I don't tell anyone. I say, "I'm considering an MFA in Creative Writing." They'll expect too much of me otherwise. They'll expect success. And, god knows, that kills me.

want me

if someone does not want me
it is not the end of the world
but
if i do not want me
the world is nothing but endings.

nayyirah waheed

4:57

"Are you here for the Bible Study?" she asked.
The expansive voice alarmed me. My quivering fingers hovered over the next impossible chord. I turned to see her - a frail woman in a blue, belted frock. Uncanny, that resonant voice, that incredible, Ozian voice.
"Um, no, I'm actually finishing up. I was practicing piano. I wasn't aware there was a Bible Study here - I think should probably leave before it begins," I said as I closed my song book and masterfully pushed in the piano bench with my right knee. I walked off the stage towards her.
"Oh, please keep practicing." Dove eyes, she had dove eyes - uncorrupted, open, holy.
"I can practice in the Hall across the courtyard, it's okay. I don't want to be in the way." Nervous laughter.
"But it doesn't start until 4:30. They must be running late. Oh, please keep practicing."
She hadn't blinked once. Her blue shimmering lids like moon light followed me kindly. I looked at the clock. 4:25.
"It's really okay, I can practice in the Hall. Enjoy your Bible study."
"Oh, alright. So long."
I left the dim room, leaving the door open for the others. She took petite steps to a wooden chair in the second row, gently - weakly - bent to tuck her basket weave clutch on the inside leg of her chair, and stared brightly at the stage. She waited for a cue to sit.
At 4:57 she was still standing.