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.

don't expect much of this post

december has been wonderful. here are some snapshots.

i dressed in black, as all directors do. seventy students, kindergarten through middle school
 performed songs and scenes from a poorly written (read:cheesy) christmas play. i instructed these rambunctious children, some of who were more disinterested or nervous than eager, to lock their eyes on me for cues and choreography. the result was hysterical - zombie eyes, concerned eyes, energetic eyes met mine on every step and riser. i could not help my laughter. managing to compose myself was difficult but the play turned out well. the occasional forgotten line or solo sung out of time was expected. they did lovely. i do wish it was more than one evening. it seemed so anticlimactic to move chairs, erect a set and lights, run microphone cords for one performance. next year, next year.

in true hispanic fashion, i spent an evening with masa underneath my fingernails. the feller, my mom, and i spread the mixture on clean corn husks, filled and rolled them. we were experts after the first few attempts were corrected mercilessly by mom. i know it is my last year living here but i always want to be around for and trusted with christmas eve preparations - vacuuming, cleaning, hanging, lighting, etc. christmas eve celebration was so much. just good times eating and playing games and opening presents with deep appreciation for the ones around us. lucky people we are!

the feller and i traveled to san diego twice. both times our eyelids hung heavy with sleep. i do love those moments of rest and unproductive lounging. we go on the occasional walk to offset the hours spent on a couch which could be equated to happily sinking in quicksand. we ate until we were full. we went to dinner with friends and before we had a chance to dig into our bougie plates, i realized, again, what good friends they are. we are lucky to have these two in our lives. they stick. and for people who have often felt displaced and abandoned, this is so so so important.

the christmas tree is still up, as it should be.

i have time off. the kind of time that allows for hours of reading, reacquainting oneself with music, and general cleaning of this-and-that. the kind of time that encourages watching movies in between hours of reading and actually playing with ones dog!

i am happy. that is not the most important thing in the world - i believe unhappiness does people good - but it is nice.

and, lastly, it is almost the new year!

cheers to

writing more than i did in 2013

painting my nails and lips

finding a more stable work schedule

being a friend

being quiet

minding my business

taking a watercolor class

cooking

adjusting my perception of myself, again and again

giving (anything) to others even if it is unlikely to be reciprocated

oh yea, and, like, getting married or something

ray

here is a picture of ray bradbury.

i can't remember if it was my father or my eigth grade english teacher who introduced me to ray but both played a part. growing up, my father took me to bookstores regularly. we are of the same breed. in a loud family, we like hours of quiet and adventure in our head. so, we spent hours thumbing through shelves, the old, dingy perfume of printed paper filling our lungs. one day, i came across the illustrated man. it is filled with violence and possibility. around the same time, i was assigned fahrenheit 451. we were instructed to mark it up with questions and thoughts. this was the first time i wrote in my book. write in my book? with a pen!? sacrilege! eventually, i adjusted. it was not an irreverent violation of the text, but a way to interact, absorb, and remember. fahrenheit 451 shocked and stirred me. i had no idea that words could be used with such imagination and power.

i read this book recently.  ray got his education at the library. he had a wife whom he met in a bookstore. she read proust and he read buck rogers. they had four daughters. he had two affairs. ray wrote one short story a week for more than 40 years despite his unpromising talent. his determination was fanatical. he willed his way to the sides of huxley, disney and more. always learning from  and pestering those who were better. he wrote for television, movies, radio and more. he sold short stories as collections and disguised them as novels. he feared the ending of things and was obsessed with immortality. creating is death's greatest loophole - keeping him alive in public conciousness as long as they read his work. ray wrote human stories even if his characters were martians. he instinctually played with metaphor and imagery. ray, ever the outsider and onlooker, dressed his life and the common things in it with words - beautiful, simple, and true.

i'd like to be like him.

and in the name of one-too-many-links:
this is a young ray. what a winner.

just one gift.

one christmas there were upwards of 60 presents underneath the tree. gifts creating a sort of impenetrable multicolored wall around what was, if you could see it, a lovely decorated tree.  we were all shocked and a little ashamed, i think. there were just too many gifts. the following year we decided to pull names and it has been that way ever since.

i contested this rule until i had a job. my argument was that i did not have "financial means to purchase a gift." to be honest, i didn't want just one gift. i wanted all the gifts. i still do at times. but every year we pick one person, keep it secret, send a mass email (or blog post) of our wish list, and have a gift wrap contest.

so, i'll get on with it as there are only seven days until christmas:

update: crossed out items have been purchased

all of the other things i've been wishing for (books, anyone?).

essie's licorice

MAC's diva

minoux's tiny bar necklace

converse

ridley's playing cards.

one (or two) movies:
  annie hall
  you've got mail
  sleepless in seattle
  ruby sparks
  while we're young
  about time
  one day
  grand budapest hotel
  les misérable

*i wear the black one all the time! (xs)

a place to live.

we are looking for a place to live.
i have lived in three houses since i was born. the house i currently live in, however, i have lived in since i was eight.

sometimes we walk around the neighborhood - the park, my old elementary school. it is comforting to know an area, to have a strong connection with a place. i have been thinking about this since i will be moving out soon, perhaps to a different area. i love the charm of my city. the mid-century homes. the art deco brick work. the brick work, period. it is a microcosm. an iconic remnant of slow, small-town life. it is framed by four or more freeways, but is somehow removed from the frantic impulse of the city. i visit often. i walk the rotund and think, work out my life on my feet.

on saturday i visited a place that would give me the hidden, quiet existence i want. low hanging trees and whimsical, wild vegetation. front lawns. cozy homes with cozy neighbors and bad parking. not too far from coffeeshops and independently owned stores. a place to walk my thoughts. it is too small. the other apartments in the area have unexposed asbestos. is this a health hazard? is it worth risking to live in this enchanted area? maybe.

our home will probably be small and crammed with books and silence and music. there will be cornmeal on the floor from our pizzas and blankets tucked in every corner.

i will miss my home (and room) of fifteen years. by some magic my room itself has absorbed my character. it effuses who i am. this home is so unequivocally part of my history that i can't imagine a saturday morning waking anywhere else. but there is a pull and true desire to sink into a deep sleep with the feller and kiss him awake. to read by his side. to cook with him and, on occasion, for him. to create a home where others are safe and welcome. to, like my family, be completely and foolishly generous with our time and resources.

this will be my last holiday season living here. i will relish every detail.

touch stones

for a brief moment, i was lost. i stepped out of the well-lit parking garage into the damp, dark night. my gps could not find the bakery i was set to meet a friend at. being the perpetually punctual lady i am, i reached for my phone to ask for directions. i was unsure about how far i was from the bakery.

still, i hesitated. i slipped my phone into the side pocket of my purse and closed my eyes. it was the first time i had stood alone with my thoughts and street lights in months. somehow, those warm street lights restore me. the same way driving through desert with no music after the sun has set restores me. the same way the smell of dirt restores me. i don't often put myself in spaces like this. i am busy. when i get home, i am tired. parking is a nightmare. every time i experience these restorative touch stones, i remind myself that the inconveniences are worth it.

my thoughts shift and move. i wonder at the cool air and the shapes of leaves. i imagine the intimacy and conflict experienced by strangers. my senses are heightened and i am more perceptive.

the world is an enchanting place to live.

magical and promising.

the decor was kitsch. hawaiian flowers and grass skirts lined the receptionists desk. starfish catapaulted from the ceiling with golden ribbon. it was obvious that like all well-intentioned businesses that cater to children this particular one had gone to Party City and emptied the summertime aisle. no one minds this behavior. the orthodonist is an intimidating figure in every crooked toothed child's life. starfish help.

i sat down and wondered how i ended up here with two mature, bright, and independent girls. they checked in on a computer at the front and nestled into the blue vinyl chairs - the glow of their Kindles on their faces.  i opened my book and not my mouth. these girls like quiet. unnecessary, excessive, uninteresting conversations bother them. they like to read. sitting with them, i was reminded of myself. by what fortune did i end up here, in an orthodonists office twenty miles from home? surprised by life's turnabouts, i excused myself to the restroom and walked down the dim hallway. i mused on a particular, reassuring thought: i cannot forsee my future - it is vast, dynamic, and dependent on infinite variables. drying my hands with the rough, cardboard-colored paper towels i recalled a similarly comforting idea: there is no plan. that is, life rarely occurs in a single, forward moving line where one thing follows another in a calculated, logical progression. this idea is what made college bearable. it is what makes my six part-time jobs magical and promising.

today, a month after the orthodonist appointment, i am still wondering how i ended up here: planning a school christmas production, taking kids to tae kwon do, writing algebraic expressions on a white board in the library, giving animal crackers to three year olds, learning piano and writing prayers for church. soon, substitute teaching. my life is a smattering of varied interests. however, it gives me time to watch the mindy project and wander around old towne. it gives me time to kneel in a catholic church and mutter my own prayers. it gives me time to walk my dog and read. it gives me time to make pizza and rent inexpensive movies with the feller. isn't this life - these small, orderly, expected things that give way to who i will be and what i will contribute when i am working?

i'm not sure where i will "end up," and yet, it doesn't frighten me. there are inexhaustibly fascinating things and people out there. it is by God's mercy that i am fed and clothed, that i have work enough to make a living. it is by His mercy that i will become a person who is merciful and generous, wherever i "end up." i am more interested in becoming that kind of person, anyways.

i know this.

lulls are expected, in life and in blogging. some months i am compelled to write and others i am not. well, perhaps i am but i am too lazy or tired or busy or happy to actually sit down and get on with it.

this was my last* summer at the private school i have been working at for three years. with my raise came more responsibilities. i was ready for them. i was trusted to plan and lead the daily activities eight hours a day, five days a week. there were small catastrophes every day, which i learned to expect and laugh at. there were days when children transitioning into kindergarten scurried out of the restroom naked, third graders had bleeding knees, children had lost socks and a kitchen worker with no consideration for the chaos i was swamped in badgered on and on about a bucket full of ice and if i was done with it. did she see the naked child or bleeding knees? there were days when we watched movies and shared food in a communal way that reminded me of family and played egyptian war for hours on end. there were days when children told me they loved me. there were also days when i ran after children with disabilities, feeling helpless and praying they would not run any further. life with children, especially outside of the classroom where they confide in you, is certainly not boring. it is the most difficult, rewarding thing i have experienced and i am sad to say goodbye to them.

two weeks before the summer program ended, i realized my income would be significantly lower. i applied for jobs in a fury - seventeen, i think? this would explain my current situation:
teaching music on mondays at a private school
tutoring on tuesdays and wednesdays (and hopefully subbing these days, too)
preschool teacher on thursday mornings
nanny on thursday and friday afternoons
part-time position at my church, which requires my time throughout the week

it's okay for you to think i'm crazy. i am. i know this. i also know that i can do this. whenever i find myself knee deep in a busy season i always look back to spring semester of  2012 when i was taking 21 units, in the middle of an internship, and working. if i could survive that, i could survive anything. oh, and there is also something else i am doing right now:

planning a wedding. because i'm engaged!
that deserves its own post. soon enough, soon enough.

well, blog world. i'm back for a few months before i disappear again.
cheers!

*funny how we plan these things. i wonder, will it really be my last summer there? i miss those kids mucho.

aging.

i am aging. does that sound silly at age twenty-three? well, i am.

i look at my mother, age sixty-four, and see a radiant, irrepressible woman.

a month ago i noticed that the veins on my legs were getting bluer, greener, darker. some even slightly raised. i am aging, i thought, and of all the magnificent applications of my imagination i could choose from - i chose worry.* and where else would worry lead me but the infinitely credible world wide web. it is the authority of our time. i half-laughed at this instinctual compulsion to ask ask ask the omniscient google why and how and all sorts of other inquiries. i laughed because it is the first place i go when i am worried about something. i am a hypochondriac in the worst sense, don't you know? and later, in the bath and on the feller's shoulder and on my dear friend's bed, i sobbed because i am so terribly afraid of being rejected for my body - my small breasts and wide hips and tiny belly and veiny limbs. i thought i would handle aging better. i thought it was the one thing i was mentally prepared for - it will come, i thought; it is unavoidable, i reminded myself; i am more than body; i chanted. but who is prepared to age? to feel and see the good things - health and youth - pass? to know this passing gives way to the one dependable eventuality - death?

but i look at my mother, age sixty-four, and cannot help but swell with affection. she has wrinkles and grey hair and lovehandles and painful vericose veins and arthritis. she has consistently been slighted by the men in her life. she could be like so many - stalking empty beauty. but she has chosen to give herself to the needs of others - her grandchildren, her children, her siblings, her own mother. she is a well of good intentions. she is a loving cook and dedicated worker. she is endlessly interested in the lives of those she loves. and her advice is always the truest thing she knows to be helpful. she is a beautiful woman. and is most happy when plating dinner, jabbing at her eldest, laughing loud and full.

these past few weeks i can see how boring and pitiful it is to be obsessed with maintaining youth. what a dull life. my mother teaches me this. working with children gives me a means to practice this 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. i can restrain myself from interacting with the kids (i.e. not going in the water with my bathing suit on, etc.) or give myself fully to them. to be tugged on. to be a child's pillow. to become a master sand castle maker. to be hugged, squeezed and, occasionally, dragged. to tag them back-and-forth-back-and-forth because there is no such thing as "no tag backs." to be out of breath and tired by them. to save them from that-really-big-wave. to tell them no. to throw the ball hard because they can handle it. to run across the campus in search of a stuffed animal or missing sock. preoccupied with my insecurities, i could be no real help. i could offer them nothing.

so, i am aging and all good things wither and die. but my mother reminds me that fear and worry don't change this, that life is better when it is about others, that serving heals us.

*the feller occasionally calls me a "worried wart," rather than a "worry wart." it is because 6-8 months ago two warts appeared on my cursed left foot. they are since gone and the memory of them makes me laugh if only because it makes him cringe.

eleven years

mom and dad have separated. it was eleven years in the making, which means nothing in regards to its impact. i have cried plenty: over love that does not put everything on the line, over shame that isolates, over unreciprocated attempts at togetherness.

i am convinced we are all damaged - it is the most unbearable truth of our time. we persist to escape, ignore, and hide it. what use is it to condemn such a human inclination? i, too, have lived out of a trunk of masks. i, too, have impolitely declined vulnerable conversations. brokenness resists exposure. we are all hopeless and damaged. inconsistent and contradictory and lost.

i once thought people could never change, sincerely. 'we are gorged on selfishness.' but over time, i found myself changing - the steadfastness of Others is a balm. so if i can change, then maybe others can. maybe not. it all depends on intentionality, rearranging priorities and training oneself to be good, not only to do good.

eleven years - can you believe it? some years were better than others. i wonder if that has more to do with ignorance and diligent secret keeping. some years were worse, characterized by a distinct pattern of discovery and disappointment, arguments and small changes that never turned into big changes. and here i am - here we are - at the end of it all: damaged, unchanging hearts in conflict still.

i know i said eleven years but could it be that it was two lifetimes in the making? could it be that it was the lifetimes of my grandparents and all those lives that touched and harmed and beat relentlessly on mom and dad? our personal histories are complex and layered. and doesn't it take a lifetime to unravel it all? and even at death isn't there still brokenness? aren't things still unresolved? and if we are still in such conflict at death, what does this all amount to?

so brave

i have read maira kalman's book three or four times since purchasing it against my budget's will in december. i reread it again this week, this heartbreakingly confusing week. and i keep coming back to this quote starting at "how are we all..."

sorry and proud. this is precisely how i feel this week. 

there is so much to weep over.

there is so much to relish in.

"what to do? what to do?" i wonder.

save our souls.

could a garden come up from this ground at all?

in light of yesterdays events this question is both

-allatonce-

my sincerest hopes and doubts.

oh, lord save our souls.

i am grieved by what i know.