omahamandy

flame

2012-01-24T10:22:00.000-06:00

You helped get me out of there.

And now you’re hiring me

to help you,

who has it all together.

But maybe you don’t.

Maybe you’ve had help along the way,

too.

It’s not paying it forward.

It’s paying it all around …

throwing the money in the air and laughing and dancing.

Because like the man on Rainier who discovered money meantnothing

without life,

we will burn down the things that don’t matter

and warm ourselves by the flames

of insubstance.

And we’ll share the heat

with those who crave it too,

like passing the torch

to those who’ll carry

the fire of life.

mid-morning battle

2012-01-23T14:21:00.000-06:00

I fought the listless and the heavy.

The not-knowingness.

The immobility.

I pushed it back with caffeine

and music

and yoga poses

and booty shakes

and air punches.

Hi-ya.

Re: Christmas miracle

2012-01-08T14:37:00.000-06:00

It’s a miracle the washer still runs. Hanging clothes to dry is much easier than finding an alternate way to wash them.
It’s a miracle that our landlords are fixing all the problems with the building and the order to vacate has been rescinded, and we don’t have to move.
It’s a miracle that I have found such good friends that it physically hurts to think of not being in the same city as them anymore. And it's miraculous that I know we'll still be friends, despite the distance.
It’s a miracle that I have had enough to make it an ENTIRE YEAR without a “real job.” And it’s a miracle that I know it’s gonna be ok.
It’s a miracle that I have people in my life who will ask what miracle I’m looking for, and who encourage me to ask for it. Thanks for caring so much for me.

wanderflee

2011-12-14T16:08:00.000-06:00

The second kitchen bulb went out, and so did I. I lost it. Icried over spilt carbon coil. And spilt rain drops all over my bedroom. Andspilt uteral lining. And spilt electricity from the nonfunctional dryer into myelbow nerves.

All the work I haven’t done and don’t know how to do. Allthe money I don’t have, yet keep on spending. All the questions of the nextmove and which way is right.

I weighed about a million pounds.

I’d lugged computer and notebooks, trying to feel positive,to feel possibility. I went into Delice and felt, instead, sweaty andmiserable. Smothered.

I fled.

I couldn’t drive away fast enough. I needed to get out inthe open, to a place safe for tears. I ran to the woods.

It was a Northwest kind of day, gray and rainy and foggy.And lovely.

I left the boardwalk on the third trail, not knowing whereit went, but knowing it was the right one. I saw turkeys ahead and hesitated.Then I kept walking, toward the turkeys that terrify me, because this was thepath that called to me. The turkeys moved to the side. I paused after I’dpassed, staring at them, and them at me, each assessing the threat of the other.Then I kept walking.

The mud spread beneath me like elephant feet. I avoided theshiny green piles of shit I thought at first to be frogs. And I looked out onthe layers of trees and fog. I felt the burden lifting. I felt the smell of earthand pine enter my body and renew it with peace.

As I wandered back toward my car, I started humming, “Backto life, back to reality,” and smiled at myself.

So I came home. The ceiling in my bedroom has stoppeddripping, at least for now, and the landlord actually sent someone over. Theclothes in the basement are almost dry. I had an idea for my work project andfired up my computer. And I pulled a chair into the kitchen and changed thatdamn light bulb. After all, I just told the world it’s my job.

Romantic notions of living in the city

2011-12-12T17:26:00.000-06:00

“We lived in St. Louis when we were first married. Summersgot so hot there, and we didn’t have air-conditioning. Some nights it was sohot, we’d throw our mattresses out onto a roof that jutted out below our windowand sleep outside.”

This was a story I heard from a middle-aged co-worker whileI was still in college. It fueled my already growing romantic notions of whatI’d imagine my twenties to be like, how my roommate or my husband or my friendsand I would live on nothing but love.And we’d have stories to tell our grandchildren and other youngwhippersnappers, forever reliving the good old days.

Here’s the thing. I got what I wanted.

No, I don’t live on nothing,but I live on not-a-lot. Well, except a lot of love. Which was the point.

My roommate and I function in many ways like a marriedcouple. She does more than her share of the dishes, and I change the lightbulbs. We share milk and apples and bread. What’s mine is hers, hers mine, andwhen one of us is short, the other gives more.

And we did live without A/C. By choice. A choice that slowlyebbed. Right now, we have clothes lines in the basement because our dryer’sgone out. We’ve enjoyed free produce given away because of its expiration.

One thing we do spend money on every year is a realChristmas tree. This is a tradition I never had as a kid. The smell of pine.The tinkling of needles. The stick of sap. We even carry it like they do in thebig city, at least in When Harry MetSally. Just one of our traditions.

So, I’m proud of this life we’ve created, the ways myromantic notions have been realized.

And the truly beautiful thing is, it’s not just for the twous. We have a community of loved ones who are regularly a part of our home.They can come in without knocking. They help themselves to a cup of tea. Theydo the dishes after a dinner party. It’s what we want: people to feel at homein our home. And it’s reciprocated, the welcome into theirs.

We would both admit that we aren’t perfect at sharing eachother or our space or our time. But we have grace for one another, andhopefully for ourselves. There is space for new friends, for developingrelationships, for changing work schedules — for life. We miss each othersometimes. Sometimes desperately. Sometimes without knowing that that’s whythings are off. But we always find each other again.

I love you, Hil.

I remember / I want to remember

2011-12-05T15:42:00.001-06:00

I remember

My dad teaching us how to properly fold and subsequently“turn the pages” of toilet paper in order to get the maximum use out of everysheet — exasperated by our monthly TP budget. “I promise you won’t even getshit on your hands.”

Sitting around Aunt Leila’s table, decorating Christmascookies with Libby, Meghann and Luke and eating a.lot.of.cookie.dough. Findingthe mouse who had crawled into my boot on the porch for refuge, but insteaddied, frozen and alone.

Dr. Hauslein, of the ear/nose/throat profession, looking upan 8-year-old Libby’s nose with a scope. Her saying, “Do I have a lot ofboogers up there?” “We’d better get a dump truck.”

I want to remember

A spontaneous wintry walk with Marcia and Daphne. Themsaying how different ailments (including eye twitch and racing heart) had beenalleviated by our stroll, while I was thinking, “I’m freezing. I don’t know howI’ll make it back,” and wrapped my scarf around my head. Walking this same pathwith Daphne during the spring when we were writing and editing and workingtogether.

A slow Friday morning Hilary and I both had off. I curled upon the foot of her bed as we talked. Then she made us eggs, toast and coffee.

Two employers who encouraged me and believed in me when Ihad forgotten how to believe in myself.

Do I want to do this? Or is it expected of me?

Progressive dinner with Suzanne, Jeff and Jordan. Cutiecourse. Bread course. Carrot course. Applesauce course. Chicken and ricecourse.

Playing frisbee the afternoon after a snow day. The sunshining. Much diving and giggling.

from "Languedoc"

2011-11-10T15:17:00.001-06:00

...
though sometimes you have to start flapping your arms
and follow them. And fly to somewhere the signs say:
Yes Trespassing, Yes Smoking,
Yes Alcohol Allowed on Premises, Yes Shirt Yes Shoes
Yes Service Yes. Yes Loitering
here by this rocky coast whose waves are small
and will not break your neck; this ain't no ocean, baby,
this is just the sea. Yes Swimming
Yes Bicycles Yes to Nude Sunbathing All Around,
Yes to Herniated Bathing-capped Veterans of World War One
and Yes to Leathery Old Lady Joggers.
Yes to their sun visors and varicose veins in back of their knees,
I guess James Joyce did get here first—
sometimes Europeans seem much more advanced.
But you can't go through life regretting what you are,
yes, I'm talking to you in the baseball cap,
I'm singing this country-western song that goes: Yeah!
Oc! Yes! Oui! We!—will dive—right—in.

Lucia Perillo, from "Languedoc," Luck is Luck

status update

2011-11-10T14:43:00.001-06:00

Did you notice?
I focused on the good.
Attention is the only currency that matters.
I didn't dwell on the pole run into
or the coffee spilled on pant and floor
or the many things that nearly drove me
back to the loving arms of my bed.

I found instead
a sister guiding me to the track
that would lead me to completing tasks.
I found help
available at the asking
and offered without it.
I found poetry that I can't stand
not to read out loud
and growing louder
and grinning all the while.
And a place I can talk about all the things
that I'm not supposed to wonder at.

Tonight will be a full moon
and tomorrow a day with six digits of one.
And life keeps ticking
keeps clicking
keeps ricketing on.
And I stumble and surge forward
with my fingers fondling the dark
and I'm finding my way.
By god, I'm finding my way.

fall ebbing to winter

2011-11-02T15:08:00.003-05:00

Halloween
We went trick-or-treating without coats, but I was mad I didn’t wear a scarf and grateful for the 6-year-old’s gloves.

Nov. 1
The field lights miraculously turned on (not so much miraculously as because the right people — the people who would soon politely ask for their field — had asked they be lit). We were playing ultimate in practical daylight, wearing t-shirts and sweating.

Nov. 2
I watched fat clumps of snow fall onto trees so colorful I had stopped and marveled on my way in. My ear has bothered me the least it has in three days — hardly noticeable in comparison to the pain of yesterday. I think maybe from the more stable barometric pressure. So maybe winter can stay.

a day to commemorate

2011-10-28T13:12:00.002-05:00

We met on a staff meeting day. We'd both brought baked goods, trying to make a good impression and win the hearts of our brand-new co-workers. Even then, a slight competitive edge mixed in with the scents of brownies and breads, I knew we'd be friends.

Hilary and I began internships at Word Made Flesh within a month of each other. We soon shared important times together: retreats, KISWs (Keep It Simple Wednesdays, pronounced "kiss-wuhs"), prayer times, slumber parties when she lived out west and when the blizzard hit.

She invited me to her church. Introduced me to her friends, who are now my friends. Spent extra-curricular time with me and slowly, slowly let me know the real her.

Our internships ended, and she took time off from WMF, while I committed to another three years. But by then, we were roommates and best friends.

When she decided to come back to WMF, we all rejoiced. She'd been advocating all along. But desk work is hard for her. Sitting still is hard for her. Being quiet in an office is hard for her. Still, she came back to care for the community. Because that's who she is.

Together we served on food committees and cleanup crews. We carpooled to work. Living together, working together. Never has it gone so well.

But as the years passed, it came time for me to move on. It was hard for her. But she celebrated my service. She commemorated my work.

And now it is her time to move on. No more desks. No more sitting still and quiet.

I wish I'd done more to celebrate her last day, to remember the sacrifices she's made and thank her for serving the organization we've both called home.

Instead I'll simply put into the electronic world:
Thank you, Hilary. Thank you for loving this community with all you could. Thank you for the many sacrifices you've made, for trying so hard for so long to serve in a capacity that doesn't suit you. Thank you for always bringing your fun, loving spirit into the place. Thank you for reminding us that relationships come first. Always.

And thank you you for having the courage to move on, stepping toward your dreams and away from the comfortable — it is inspiring.

quirky

2011-10-21T09:20:00.003-05:00

I really like to tie together the laces of my cleats, which I wear for frisbee. I like this for two reasons: 1) It’s very convenient to throw them over my shoulder rather than having to hold two shoes in addition to all the other crap I take with me. 2) It seems very sporty to have cleats with their laces knotted together.

I love Downey Wrinkle Release spray. Both because of its magical wrinkle-fighting power, which coincides perfectly with my anti-ironing morals, and because of its delightful scent, which I prefer to perfume.

Sometimes the only way I can talk myself into waking up is to agree to have breakfast in bed. It’s a compromise: getting to stay in bed, but not getting to still be asleep.

Sometimes I fall asleep on the toilet during my morning pee. Sometimes I let myself go back to bed for ten or fifteen minutes. But then you have to get up!

If I’ve been sweaty or dirty, I have to shower before bed.

I love being barefoot. But that means dirty feet. So, with the above quirk understood, I stick my feet under the tub faucet many summer nights just before bed.

Early afternoon coffee is often the best decision I make all day.

I don’t throw away chapstick tubes until I’ve scraped out every last morsel with my fingernail.

If I get a soft drink at a restaurant, I intend to have at least four refills to get my money’s worth.

I drink fast. I’m not good at the whole sipping and savoring business. Even hot drinks. As soon as they’ve cooled down enough, I slurp them down.

With the above two points, I think I must be a nuisance to restaurant servers. I try to make up for it with an excessively grateful attitude.

for Suzanne

2011-10-14T09:47:00.000-05:00

Suzanne is the kind of friend you don't take for granted.

I've never, since the moment I met her, had to wonder if she cared about me. And that's how she is with every person she meets. If you know her, I am probably wasting my time trying to put this into words. You already know.

A generous friend, she frequently supported me while I worked at a non-profit raising my salary, even when she had very little. She is the person the widow in Mark 12 reminds me of: "Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, 'Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.'"

I think that's what she's doing by going on this World Race trip. Putting it all in.

Sue has traveled overseas before to participate in missions. She has wondered about going back for a long time. And now, it's time.

She'll be gone for eleven months.

I ... I haven't come to terms with this yet. I started crying as I wrote that. Eleven months. It's such a long time to be away from one of my dearest friends.

But Suzanne will be away from all of her friends, except the new ones she'll undoubtedly be making every step of the way. That has to be scary, especially for someone like Sue, who values relationship above all else. That's what I mean about her going all in. This is a huge risk.

And it means she has to offer for financial donations, something difficult for anyone to do. Besides the fact that she has to raise $15,500 by January, she has to have $3,500 of it by this weekend. (That's another thing you probably already know about Suzanne: She is a last-minute kind of girl. She had her interview nine days before orientation starts. But I fully believe the money will come in for her in time. Because people believe in her.)

Honestly, I don't know much of anything about Adventures in Mission, the organization she'll be working with. I just know that Suzanne is excited about the opportunities to love people it will offer.

And, frankly, I don't need to know another thing about it. I support Suzanne. And she believes this is the right next step in her life.

I suppose I'm writing this post because I need to start processing her trip for myself. But also because I want to support her. I don't have a lot to give her financially. But I can offer her my love, and I can call on my friends to do the same. So, please, keep her in your thoughts and prayers this coming week at her orientation, and during her trip, which begins in January 2012.

If you would like to give financially, fill in "Suzanne Hofer" as the participant's name at this website: http://adventures.org/give/donate.asp?giveto=worldrace.

a gift recorded

2011-10-14T08:38:00.001-05:00

Our friend Jason Coy gave us these incredible mugs. Hilary was happy about it.

mislyrics

2011-10-13T11:29:00.000-05:00

Here are some lyrics I perpetually mess up.

"Living out our dreams" in "Lighters" by Bad Meets Evil, ft. Bruno Mars.
I sing: "Living out of trees."

"Spit on your chin" in "White Collar Boy" by Belle and Sebastian.
I sing: "Skin in your teeth."

And apparently it's "So come on" in "Uprising" by Muse.
Not "Beow wow."

chip clip

2011-10-12T09:01:00.000-05:00

day off

2011-10-11T17:30:00.000-05:00

Six o'clock rolled around, and I had left the house exactly three times: to set out, turn, and retrieve brats for my four o'clock lunch — if "leaving the house" includes stepping far enough outside the front door to have both feet on the front stoop, just far enough to reach the grill. Never wearing a bra.

practicing gratitude

2011-10-10T17:16:00.000-05:00

I have been practicing gratitude. That is to say, I have been taking note of things I am grateful for...er, for which I am grateful.
(I am grateful for backspace.)

Recent counsel has advised me to make a list every night of such things.
(I am grateful for good counsel.)

Of course, I have not done so every night.
(I am grateful for freedom.)

But it has been fun to meditate on these bright parts of my life.
(I am grateful to have so many things for which to be grateful!)

I hear gratitude is the only emotion that can be self-initiated. I also hear that focusing on gratitude can release feel-good hormones.
(I am grateful for feel-good hormones.)
.....

So, this past week, I was overbooked. I actually triple-booked myself for the same time slot one morning. And I had things planned back-to-back from 9 a.m. until 11 p.m. more than one day. (Granted, not all of it was work. Some of the things were actually truly delightful.) But all together, it was exhausting ... and I was just afraid of dropping some of the balls I was juggling.

So here's what I'm grateful for:
The people who helped me.

Two dear friends in particular made my life possible last week. And, although I am getting better at asking for help, this time I didn't have to ask. They offered. It was such a gift.

I am also grateful that I could accept the help offered to me. I'm so glad I have gotten to the place in my life in which I can let go of some of my pride and say, "Yes. Thank you. It would be awesome if you would do that. THANK YOU!!"

I am also grateful for the people whose grace allowed flexibility to work with my schedule last week. I hate to break commitments, and I'm so thankful for the understanding that was extended to me.

I think those three notes all point to something bigger: I love feeling like part of a team. This is what community is. It's friendmily. A feeling of being in it together.

And for that, I am utterly grateful.

oxygen mask

2011-10-06T01:25:00.001-05:00

I was among the last few to board. It was one of those tinytubes of a plane, with two seats on each side of the aisle that wasn’t wideenough to pass without brushing on both sides.

A wave of nausea fell on me: claustrophobia. Twenty-one rowsof eyes watched me wait for the passengers in front of me to stow their carry-onsand cram into their seats.

It was then that I recalled I had dreamed about oxygenmasks.

I could see myself in fuzzy dream haze, a smile of placidityon my face, like the ones the flight attendants wear to demonstrate the calmmanner in which this should all take place. I first secured the yellow cup tomy face and tightened the straps. The bag did not inflate, though oxygen steadilyflowed into the mask. Only then did I reach to help my neighbors.

I spent the whole flight wondering if I’d had anotherpremonition of sorts, like the night before when I almost carried my ice packand first aid kit to the Frisbee field rather than leaving them in the car theway I always did, three days a week, for at least three years now. This on thenight Tom broke his fibula.

But we landed, under time. I didn’t take myself very seriouslyand forgot about it all until I was about to take off on the second leg of mytrip and the safety demonstration began once more.

I thought, bemused, maybe this is the flight that willcrash.

And then it hit me with a stronger wave of nausea than the claustrophobia.

That oxygen mask was my life. I have to learn to secure myown mask — take care of myself — first, before I can be of any help to anyoneelse. Otherwise, I’d soon be floundering on the ground, dying. And anyone Iwould have been capable of helping would have also been abandoned.

wearing rubies

2011-09-29T11:08:00.004-05:00

I got a lot of compliments on my necklace this Monday at the Wests' house.

Adia: "Your necklace is so pretty!"
Me: "Thank you. A friend gave it to me."
Jedi: "The way it sparkles in the light ... it looks like a pearl surrounded by rubies! It's beautiful!"
Elijah: "And you look beautiful wearing it."
Me: "Wow! I came to the right place tonight!"
Jedi: "And wearing the right necklace!"

Silas summed it up perfectly: "We don't disappoint."

Jedi was really on that night. Here are a few other gems.

Jedi was supposed to help clear the table, but he is very sensitive to leftover food on the plates. Kimberly was telling me about a hot dog on the floor at Costco.

"Don't remind me!" said Jedi. "You're making me wish I could barf my thoughts!"

And later when Jedi was proven wrong about whose turn it was to do a certain chore, he said, "All right, all right. I ate a crow."

a day redeemed

2011-09-09T00:28:00.003-05:00

A fight with the roommate. Groggy morning words that shouldn’t have been said.
Apology to roommate.
Morning pages.
Text to further apologize to roommate.
Oatmeal squares.
Allergies constantly making nose run.
Music.
Email.
A bit of work.
Phone call from Pat.
A bit of other work.
Searching Adobe website.
Phone call to Adobe. Impatience.
Sister coming over.
Grocery store.
Shredding cheese.
Sister rolling dough.
A bit more work.
Epic pizza.
Phone call to Adobe.
Phone call to Pat.
Phone call to Adobe.
Internet problems. Sitting outside to get better signal. Inside. Outside. Inside. Out.
Adobe document that must be printed, signed, scanned back in. What year is this? 1999? Why don’t they ask me to fax it?
Exhaustion.
Realization that my printer’s scanning capabilities must be set up using the CD.
Irritation.
Cannot find the CD in desk, closet, basement.
Helpless.
Oh, look. Faxing is an option.
Faxing definitely needs CD … and also a landline. And a time machine.
Much whimpering. Maybe a mini-fit.
Sister is calming.
Will use sister’s scanner.
1990s document sent. Relief.
Sister’s cat making allergies worse.
A bit of work.
Friend: There are Bon Iver tickets left. Get People to come.
People and Me: Him. Haw. Should we go? $40. Him Haw. Yes.
Tickets gone.
Friend: Sold out in front of your eyes? Bummer. I will try to get you tickets. Plan on going.
People and me: Oh, well. Saved $40. Let’s play frisbee.
Friend: Can I use your printer to print my ticket?
As long as it doesn’t involve scanning.
Show up at frisbee.
Friend calls: I think I have tickets. I will call you back.
Me: Woohoo!!
People: Uh. I would be fine not going. I mean. I don’t know. Him. Haw.
Friend: I got ’em!
Me: Uh. I don’t know if People want to go anymore. You bought them? Oh. They’ll go.
Friend: $25!
Me and People: WOOHOO!
Friend: I need to use your printer again.
Four accidental pages of half tickets printed.
More chaos about timing of departure and dinner and Friend’s friends arriving from out of town.
Driving to Council Bluffs.
Arrive.
Friend forgot ticket at home.
8:00. Friend makes it back for the opener.

And suddenly, nothing else matters. Here we are.

Soon, Justin Vernon is 20 yards from me. I’m standing. The weather is perfect. The bass makes my pant legs bounce against my shins.

Within the first four bars, this is the best concert I’ve been to. Maybe because it’s the freshest. Maybe because it was redemption for a day of start-stops and misfires and putting out fires. Maybe because I really love Bon Iver and I was willing to spend money to enjoy this incredible music, because I really really love myself.

Little pieces of the week

2011-09-05T16:52:00.002-05:00

Smelling incense from outside, over the freshly cut grass.
Pipe cleaner.
Debate about where to store dirty dishes.
Debate about where to store clean clothes.
Potatoes whose innocence you can taste.
Praying mantis.
Attack by praying mantis.
Cooking three casseroles at once.
Succulents.
Completing promises.
Setting intention.
Truest version of self.
Council.
Counsel.
Women who inspire me.
Creativity as a business plan.
Knowing what I want.
Writing again.
Autumn.
Giving an assessment on “our” team this year after the first football game of the season.
Pizza from my female sugar daddy.
Beauty.

I, 12

2011-08-29T20:22:00.002-05:00

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.

(Rilke's Book of Hours)

a metaphor for life...

2011-08-29T19:41:00.001-05:00

Sometimes you gotta climb on the fucking table and change the fucking bulb.

girl dude

2011-08-27T23:57:00.004-05:00

I'd like to think that if I got super depressed and wasn't getting off the couch or returning phone calls that someone would come, wrestle me to the ground, make me hit myself, and yell in my face, "I'm your life! I'm your shitty life! You have to fight back!"

Yes, I finally saw "Bridesmaids." Gotta love the cheap theater.

I am so impressed by Kristen Wiig. Sure, I've always thought she was funny...but that crazy kind of funny. SNL skits. Tiny cameo roles. Insane people that would never exist in real life. But, this time...this time she was real. I believed her. I mean, maybe not all the crazy stuff. But she was an actual character, with depth. And I loved her.

The other thing. I cried. I don't know, maybe half of the movie. It was ridiculous. This is not a sad movie. This is, as Brit coined it, a girl dude movie, and here I am, wiping tears away.

Ah, well. Gotta love a flick that makes you laugh and cry.

Tonight I am thankful for dinners, for grilling, for the thought of sleeping in tomorrow, for baby toes, for neighbors and friends. And, yes, for film. That great, mystical art form. ;)

mini-posts

2011-08-17T14:10:00.001-05:00

The neighbor is mowing, filling my house with the rumble of the machine and the smell of green. The sun is shining. Music is playing.

The day—the day is mine.

The soft bouncing of the door in the windows-open draft.
knock-knock—wake up
knock-knock—it’s time

Sometimes you need to finish a book, even if it means three hours of sleep. And sometimes you get to re-experience the magic of coffee.

The rain sounds like little footsteps
outside my window.
and the thunder like
drawers closing
cupboards shaking
dishes dancing, quaking

Seattle trip tidbits

2011-08-16T22:11:00.002-05:00

I walked into Lake Washington with my clothes on, the day too perfect and the water too warm not to. I waited at the rope for the lifeguard on boat to near the dock with the diving boards. Panting, I climbed the seven or ten feet to the high dive and jumped. I climbed again, now taking requests.
Cannonball!
Can opener!
The rowing lifeguard complimented my form, my splash. Good. It hurt.
I climb one last time.
Dive! Give me a D! You got your D, you got your D! Give me an I! You got your I, you got your I! Give me a V! You got your V, you got your V! Give me an E! You got your E, you got your E! What’s that spellllll?!?
Hilary, my cheerleader.
-------------------------------

This is how I think of flying: that crazy tired that leaves you empty. You long for sleep but can’t grasp it.
-------------------------------

I woke to birds chirping though the window that’s open with no screen.
I walked out into the hall, into the sunlight and more open air.
I grinned and said, “Shut up.”

I’m lying on Scott’s Mother Teresa blanket—white and blue—on his mattress and box spring on the floor.

My hair, my for once glamorously tousled morning hair, is spilled out behind me. I’m listening to his iPod, looking at his books in wine crates on the wall, at his fly-fishing gear hanging from hooks.

I’m wondering what to wear and feeling lazy and great.
-------------------------------

Eating pizza in Seattle, I got suddenly, desperately homesick for Grandma & Grandpa’s English-muffin pizza. I almost cried.
-------------------------------

We were being quiet when we arrived at Scott’s. Hushed voices. Muffled rummaging for sleeping bags. Then Hilary fell down the stairs.
-------------------------------

A white film covers my hands: salt from paddling my kayak across the Sound.

Hilary singing “Hold Me” (the Free Willy theme song) both on kayak and at karaoke in a random bar on the way home.

Orca calls bouncing back to us off the wall of rock.
-------------------------------

Shower it up, Big Boy.
F-Jord. Hard J.
Out of respect for you, I closed my eyes.
I’m just resting my eyes. … I lied! I was totally asleep!
Come closer. Keep talking. I just wanted to feel your bicep.
-------------------------------

Our soundtrack includes Bon Iver (with Scott’s singing along his own rendition of the words), the PSA “The More You Know” notes, “Sister Christian,” and, of course, “Baby Monkey.”
-------------------------------

Staying with hippies, my unspoken agreement: Let the yellow mellow.
-------------------------------

Carl’s Jr. gave me my money back because I had to wait 15 minutes for a sandwich they had to be reminded to make and “suffer the humiliation of being the last to eat.”
-------------------------------

Bright gray.
-------------------------------

Peanut butter is not bitter.
-------------------------------

Listening to “’Til Kingdom Come” by Coldplay/Cash and various Black Keys
in the morning light, sleep hair
eating fruit and biscuits
drinking coffee
rocking out.
-------------------------------

Yelling Muse’s “Uprising” at the top of our lungs, windows down, driving the forever bridge over the Columbia into Washington. We will be victorious. Bitches.
-------------------------------

Fist pump the first thing out of the water.
-------------------------------

All five of us got into Scott's queen-size, to show we could. The boys were bookends. We rotated all at once, spoons flipping in their drawer. Carefully avoiding genital touching.

My friends' big fat Greek Orthodox wedding weekend

2011-07-26T00:37:00.002-05:00

After rehearsal, I took Marcia home to grab a few forgotten items for the hotel room. Lotion, contact stuff, face lotion. Walking into the house, Marcia paused to check the dampness of her potted plants’ soil, just like any day.

Magdi gave me a brief Arabic lesson about the letter that sounds like an “h” in the back of your throat—when it is to vibrate (AKA phlegm rattle) and when it is not to. This lesson was to help me in pronouncing the names of dozens of Egyptian relatives. Said pronunciations were practiced dozens of times throughout the weekend, alone and for approval/correction.

Jara was able to contain herself. No adoption of British accent while speaking to British-accented cousins. I have not stopped saying, “It’s just there,” since, however.

“Where are your parents?”
“I’m tired of watching you. I mean, watching you, I’m tired.”
-“Imagine me naked.” -“Uh. You can’t say that, little girl.”

The bridal party changed course mid-walk to after-rehearsal-dinner party. We sat together for a few moments in a hotel room instead. Magnets on the door. A message was posted: “I’m getting married tomorrow, bitches.” But not actually by the bride. She’s not that vulgar.

A beasty breakfast included one Plate of Awesome, a Purple Photo, the best French toast ever created (agreed upon by everyone at the table, all of whom were persuaded into sampling it), and much feeding of neighbors with your own fork.

On our way to the Durham for pre-wedding photos, Jon and his boys in Marcia’s mom’s Flex sped past my vanload of bridal party. But I know a shortcut. We won.

The only time I cried during the 45-minute ceremony was watching Marcia walk down the aisle. Radiant. Sure.

Before this week, Father Peter, at the Greek Orthodox church of the wedding, called a Coptic reverend to learn some Arabic phrases in order to properly greet Marcia’s Egyptian family. During the ceremony, the “Our Father” was prayed in three languages—Greek, English, and Arabic. That was one of the most beautiful parts of the wedding.

We attached actual cans to the back of the wedding car. And wrote “Just hitched,” as well as “Marcia” and “Jon” with corresponding arrows. Under Brit’s supervision, no penises were drawn.

It takes two to make a thing go right.

Lesson learned: weed whacker not best stored in car trunk on a wedding weekend.

In one of many Wedding-Day Miracles, Caldwell reached developed city and was able to Skype in a congratulations before the reception. Tears were restrained. Barely. Gratitude for sharing the day with a dear, dear friend many hundreds of miles away.

Exiled drinks found a home in the middle of the head table.

Inspirational speeches given, including this one. Physical impression nailed by Daphne; exact voice replicated by Caleb.

Disagreement on enjoyment of Turkish Delight’s nutty pleasantness and also a strange inside-of-Fig-Newton-like “candy”/gummy paste.

Carafe of iced tea disappeared in ten minutes. One person. Delicious.

Sparkler send-off ended in mild bickering over flameholder’s responsibility to keep watchful eye on sparks while dancing in parking lot.

Celebration breakfast consisted of chocolate croissants (though the chocolate was on the outside, not the inside, as one pastry snob pointed out) and mimosas; gift, luggage, and people deliveries; flirting from married men (like father like son); and, of course, E-85 gasoline.

Some days

2011-07-21T00:38:00.001-05:00

Some days you get to hang out with friends, eating or watching a movie or talking over ice cream.
Some days you get to run around outside in a team-sport activity, even though it’s 98 degrees, because you’re all mutually soaked in sweat and can laugh and bitch together.
Some days you get to read a book that makes you laugh and cry and that gives you goosebumps because it’s so good—and it isn’t even published yet.
Some days you get to play with three cats and four dogs even though you’re allergic, because your friends love them, you like them, and you can always take a Benadryl.

Some days you get to learn to build a deck—how to tie string on stakes to square up the posts, how to dig 40 inches into the earth, how to mix concrete from 80-pound bags that, yes, you are strong enough to carry.
And some days your opinion is valued, even though you’ve never done this activity before. But you can talk through it, and call in another friend who has done it, and together you can figure it out.
Some days you get to learn to landscape.
Some days you get to work in the same room as three people you love like crazy.
Some days you are made aware of how frequently you sigh without realizing it.

Some days you get to start work on a back porch while it’s still shady and move inside when it’s cold.
Some days a friend or a boss will make you lunch.
Some days you get to talk about far-off ideas that really could happen.
Some days you get to chase your friend down the street because you forgot something in his car.
Some days you forget to start the dryer.

Some days you drink iced cucumber water at home for a nice treat and find yourself shivering while the thermostat reads 82.
Some days you get to see teeny-tiny little babies, three days old.
Some days you get splinters.
Some days you get to welcome home your roommate and friend from two weeks of overseas travel, during which time you missed them more than you’d imagined.
Some days you get to have slumber parties with your sister.

Some days you agree to wake up for work before five a.m. because you just like the people so much.
Some days you get to celebrate the marriage of two darling people while sitting in a circle of some of your dearest friends.
Some days you get to resolve tension.
Some days you get to sing in a ridiculously off-key “Happy Birthday” to a ten-year-old—if you can ever stop laughing.
Some days you get to make a s’more over the stovetop.

Some days like this all happen to fall in the same week.

a brief tribute to midwest skies when a storm is rolling in

2011-07-06T12:49:00.003-05:00

strong

2011-06-22T22:04:00.002-05:00

I helped my sister and brother-in-law move in yesterday. Up one flight of stairs into a cute apartment that a friend of mine used to live in. Up and down. Boxes, totes, lamps. Again using my body. It felt good.

We moved their queen-sized mattress in, finagling it through the stair landing. "Pivot!!" came to mind. We got it up, but it was flexible. The box spring was next. Thankfully, a random 14-year-old offered his help. He had fresh muscles and pride to pull his weight. We got it to the landing and tried to make our turn. "A little more this way." Lifting from underneath with full body, pushing from head or neck or back. And then, we got it lodged in there pretty good. We all doubted if we'd make it, maybe we couldn't even get it free. It was close. Just a few more inches. The bottom corner looked like it had some room, so I somehow got myself into corner — trapped like the mattress, so we'd have to both get free. I started pulling and pushing and doing whatever I could to wriggle it free, sweating like a maniac. Libby and Ben and our new friend Zach were doing all they could. The plaster on the stairwell "chipped" in, too. And then it went.

We had a few other things to go. More boxes. A dresser. And a sleeper couch. It was decently heavy, not the worst sleeper couch, but awkward. I was at the top end, pulling, pulling. We were so close, but wedged in the doorframe. I was on the inside, and the other three were outside. "Ok, before we can tilt it down, we need it to move my way. Ready? Go!" I lifted and pulled. Again. One last time. Made it!

I descended the stairs panting and soaked, feeling strong.

Then we unpacked. I did a lot of the kitchen. I felt valuable.

When we were all done for the night, I was exhausted. I needed to leave much before I did. In order to lead the way for Mom and Dad, I was swinging my car around the wrong way out of an angled parking spot. "How convenient. No one's parked on my right." CRUNCH! Turns out no one was parked on the right because a fire hydrant lives there. And it wanted to remove my front bumper. "FUUUUUCK." I got out and looked. All I could do was swear and cry. In five minutes, I could laugh. But at that moment, I sure didn't feel strong anymore.

Streak

2011-06-21T23:08:00.002-05:00

I'm on a streak! Look at me blog!

Did you think this was going to be about nudity?

OK. Well, we have been talking about this lately, because of the College World Series. Hilary even plotted her route if she were to ever venture. And here's a question: Is it "streaking" if you run onto the field with clothes on? I say no.

This conversation started because a few summers ago at our beloved CWS, a man descended the stairs of our section in right field. He took off his clothes—there was his bare ass, right in front of us!—and dropped himself over the banister onto the field. He ran toward the bases. He posed like The Thinker. Then he lifted his hands in surrender to the security guards barreling at him. They tackled him spectacularly anyway, making an example of him.

That was the most memorable game I'd been to. Until the tornado game. Sirens started going off in the middle of the sixth inning. Several people fled the ballpark. We stayed a while longer, since the players were still on the field. As they left and the ground crew started covering the field with an enormous foil-looking tarp (under which one of the crew members was temporarily trapped and had to tunnel her way out of), the announcer said there was a high wind advisory and that we were welcome to get under the concourse until it passed and play could resume.

We decided to leave because waiting could take forever (as in, it was eventually delayed to the next day). As we exited the stadium, we saw an enormous wall cloud, scary as hell. It sort of reminded me of the sky in Ghostbusters, right before the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man comes thundering out.

We walked along the side of the Qwest Center, trying to decide how bad it was really going to get. Cops and security personnel continually suggested we go into the Qwest, but we kept walking. Finally the wind started pelting us with grit. I couldn't see because my eyes were assaulted by sand. And it hurt my delicate, delicate skin. I was going inside!

We watched from behind the glass doors (I know, I know: safety hazard threat level red). The flag pole bent in the wind. I saw rotation in the clouds (my dad used to be a storm watcher for the county, so I think I know cool terms like that). Dust lifted off the baseball diamond in a swirl. I saw a funnel cloud. It was north of us, blowing east. Soon a security guard came in and yelled for us to get inside the arena. We did for a while. Then there was more of this, us watching from the glass doors and then getting herded back to safety. It was just so mesmerizing.

yard work

2011-06-20T23:58:00.002-05:00

We did yard work together, using our muscles and our tendons and bones, sweating in the sun as we pulled and trimmed and pushed. Dirt stuck like flies to our glistening arms and legs. We wiped our brows with gloved backs-of-wrists and drank cucumber water from sweating glasses, whose condensation dripped down our happy chins. Our labor is usually mental or emotional, but today we employed our bodies. And it was good.

Lists of happiness

2011-06-17T23:48:00.002-05:00

Happiness is
a circle of friends, salty in post-frisbee garb, stabbing forks into a communal bowl of watermelon
lounging in a love-chair(? ("seat" is too strong of a word)), giggling with two of my bestest friends
sister time
which may include shopping for lingerie the day before my baby sister's wedding
watching said baby sister, who does not want children, tear up as she first hears the heartbeat of our older sister's belly-baby
or whispering in an awkward massage/dentist waiting room, only to discover our appointment has been stood up and, in fact, there isn't a massage going on in the next room, therefore there was no need to whisper
watching baby sister get married, including reading poetic vows, and watching older sister cry at said vows

Happiness is
baseball games
hugging approximately 47 people I love all in one day
inside jokes
seeing synchronicity in action, and how well equipped my friends are to grab ahold of an amazing opportunity
and how a whole community of people rises up to help achieve a goal
and how art happens

Happiness is
talking too fast to my roommate because there's just so much to say
a random phone call from my dad
completing tasks that get crossed off of three lists
cheddar cheese
finding out that older sister's belly-baby is a girl, and I will soon have a niece

Happiness is me, bitches!

celebrating

2011-06-08T09:16:00.000-05:00

I was laugh-crying in my bedroom. This beloved high school teacher of mine passed away recently, and a former schoolmate made a video in remembrance of him. If you listen to the last few seconds of this video (9:19), you'll get one of the reasons I shared a special bond with him.

When we had class together, we disrupted the entire floor with our laughter. As I watched, I thought, "Boy, it is good to celebrate the life of this good, good man."

I saw this the day after a wedding of a dear friend who will now be moving to Germany with his new bride. I was thrilled to be a part of that celebration. We toasted and clapped and chanted and danced. It was good. And even though I was weepy thinking about this friend not being in Omaha anymore, I am so happy for him to go out on this great new adventure.

Today I'll head home for another wedding: my baby sister's. I know she just loves to be called my baby sister, but she is the baby of the family. And here she is, a few short days from starting a new chapter in her life. I don't know about her, but I feel unprepared. The kid. Married. ohmygod, are we really adults?!

And then she's moving to Omaha. Losing one local friend, gaining a local sister and brother-in-law — all in the same apartment!

So, I guess what I'm saying is, life is full. There's a lot to cherish.

Lucky

2011-06-07T21:26:00.001-05:00

I was driving down to Papillion to visit my friend, her toddler, and her two-week-old. I had just had a fun photo shoot with a client who’s letting me borrow her camera, suggesting—insisting, actually—that I use it at my sister’s wedding. Then I’d gone to Target and picked out a gift for 7-year-old Elijah’s birthday, which I’d be celebrating that night, and also a pair of clearance earrings for myself, as the nice thing I did for myself that day (that’s right, I think we should do something nice for ourselves every day).

It hit me very suddenly, bringing a bolt of laughter and a wave of tears: “I am the luckiest girl in the world.”

I was thinking about all the love in my life. Friends. Really good friends. When I was a kid, all I wanted in the world was a best friend. Now I have … more dear, dear friends than I can count. And I just can’t even believe it. I’m so lucky! Each of those friendships is nuanced. I relate to each person in a special way. It’s different than what I used to imagine, which was that one person would be my everything, meet my every need. (See codependent.) But this is how it’s meant to be: meaningful relationships that help you learn and grow and experience love in unique ways.

Another reason I felt so stinkin’ lucky was that I get to be around kids on a regular basis. They are such a gift, and I have so much to learn from them. And I know some really cool parents who let me hang out with them and their little ones.

AND I have a flexible schedule that allows me to feel free. Freedom! I can make time during a weekday to catch up with friends. Freelancing has allowed me to get back in touch with a part of myself that I love. I have freedom, energy, and generosity to be a good friend. And, you know, I can be a pretty damn good friend. No—I GET to be a damn good friend. Is it ok if I think that’s part of my vocation?

Now, it is true that I have felt some stress from time to time with “too many balls in the air” (balls = projects; air = a given time period) and also from seasons of, shall we say, wealth deficiency. But I wrote this down the other day: “I am broke, but I am happy. I love my life!”

Jotting these thoughts down, I am once again filled with gratitude. I shout out, “Thanks for this awesome life I get to live!!!”

Thanks for reading.

Movement

2011-05-11T15:47:00.000-05:00

Grounded

2011-05-06T16:19:00.002-05:00

A lot of times when I start to feel overwhelmed, I’ll have this urge to lie on the ground.

In the last several months of my last full-time job, I probably hit the carpet weekly. Just for a few minutes, while I regained a sense of hope.

One Saturday during that difficult season, I was feeling particularly down. That was one of the darkest days I’ve known. I made it outside to the grass and fell to the earth.

Eventually my breathing slowed and deepened. I stopped crying. I watched the clouds overhead and clutched the grass below.

It was like I could hear the heartbeat of the earth, like I was being rocked and held.

I think there’s something to this innate instinct to stop fighting against gravity, to be held by something solid, to be grounded once more.

Two of my most darling friends came over that night and lay in the grass with me. If being grounded was what I needed most, that friendship is what I needed second most in the world.

Here’s something I free-wrote later given the prompt, “What matters?”:

What matters?

Guts. I don’t mean to gross you out. I’m not talking about intestines spilling out of a split-open body, although you need those. Nor am I talking about courage—though that does matter, too. I’m talking about instincts—gut reactions—first thoughts.

Your guts matter. Trust your instinct. Trust that feeling that resides there, deep in your bowels.
It isn’t your head.
It isn’t your heart.
It’s something more primal.
It’s the core of your very being reacting with the knowledge of all the universe—it’s all plugged in here.

And you don’t listen.
You react. You trust. You move.
Wax on. Wax off. Muscle memory. Encoded to your guts.
Feel. Know. Respond.
In a split second.

What else matters?

Writing matters.
I think it might be able to change the world.
Of course, I could be putting too much stake in it.
But this is it. Wild Mind.
Pen connected to gut.
Think.Write.
The pen can hardly keep up.
This is the pulse of the earth.
The earth is made up of me.
I am made up of it.
It moves. I respond.
At least, that’s how it should be.
I should be able to nurture words free-flowing out of me.
Maybe that will come back
when the leak in the system
is fixed
and my creativity
isn’t oozing out the back
down a blackened alley gutter
that smells of rotten potatoes
and fecal matter.

What matters is
friends who come over and
lie in the grass with you,
rooting your guts to the earth
once more,
staring up at clouds rolling by
and at stars starting to peek out.
Crickets chirp. Lives move forward
blindly.
And we lie here
in the grass
drinking wine
and smoking cloves.
And a caterpillar gets smashed
when he tries to hitch a ride.
His watermelon-green guts
splash out on the counter.
Poor guy can’t live anymore.
Guts matter.

willing to be dazzled

2011-04-21T15:43:00.002-05:00

Excerpt from Mary Oliver's "The Ponds"

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

Sabbatical, Part 13 [closure]

2011-04-20T13:54:00.002-05:00

Chris left the day before I did. I spent my final time on the West Coast with two lovely people, Sarah and Sebastian. They met in Peru, where Sebas was born. He has been in the States for a year now, and they’ve been married almost that long. I loved seeing his excitement about things I take for granted. For instance, the library lets you borrow books for free! And sandwiches. The man loves sandwiches.

We had a lot of fun together and also spoke honestly. I appreciated hearing their story of falling in love and the way they’ve come since then. I’m grateful for how they shared with me and for how they listened to me.

Being able to visit with them and to just spend time in the presence of such deep love was the perfect way to end my trip. I even had a few hours alone in their home my last morning before my flight. It brought me closure and peace. Here is my journal entry:

1/18

I was thinking last night that my question in college was “Who am I?” Now I think it’s “Where am I?”

It’s a good question. I am orientating myself as I prepare for my next step, but I’m not afraid to do some exploring. Some of my journey will be beautiful with a clear view. Some of it will be walled in, in thick white fog that makes me slow down. Some of it will be alone. Some of it will be with dear friends. All of it is a treasure.

The point of this trip was the trip. Every day on my drive that I started thinking too much about where I needed to get to and by what time, I’d have to remind myself: The journey is the point. I’m not behind schedule. I will not stress out or overdo it just because I think the words “I’m supposed to … ”

I learned that I appreciate structure, but thrive when there’s flexibility.

I remembered that I have a strong sense of direction. I’m good at reading maps, but I spent most of my drive without one. I knew the way I needed to head, and there were plenty of signs along the way. This is true in life. I usually know the way I should be going, if I could just listen to my gut.

So, “Where am I?” can help me get my bearings. It can help me position myself for the direction I will head next — as I’m guided by my gut. “Where am I?” is free of judgment. It is not “Where am I supposed to be?” Nor is it “When am I supposed to get there?” Rather, its answer is an observation, a realization, even an acknowledgment.

Oh. Here. I am here.

Sabbatical, Part 12 [SanFran]

2011-04-15T17:17:00.009-05:00

I made it back into the city of touchdown and found my way to the hostel Christina and I would stay at for the next four days. I had a few hours before I’d pick her up from the airport, so I did some laundry. I ate in my room, which isn’t allowed. But they kicked me out of the little restaurant, because it also isn’t allowable to eat outside food in there. Fine. I wished I was in my little car alone again. Being with people is tricky.

Chris and I are travel buddies. We know how to do a city and do it right. We’ve walked our asses all over the Disney empire in Florida. We’ve hit up St. Louis. We’ve even done Omaha right.

Over the years, we’ve hit a good balance of touring areas of town, trying out the cuisine, and finding time for deep conversation in the midst.

So, we mastered San Francisco. I mean … as well as anyone can master a large city in four days. Here are a few of the highlights:

-Alcatraz — at night, thank you very much

-Golden Gate Bridge
-Golden Gate Park (not connected to the bridge)
-Cable car

-Ghirardelli

-Dolores Park (a place where real San Franciscans hang out—in fact, we were approached by one who assumed we were locals! Yes! Blending success!)

-Every form of public transportation the city offers, including, technically, a stolen bus ride

(On our first morning there, we dropped off my little car, to which I'd added almost exactly 2,000 miles.)

We even met up with some of my cousin’s friends I’d met in the fall. They are awesome. And so was the food we shared together at a place called Dottie’s True Blue Café.

You really should check out Chris’ report. She gives so many more thoughtful details.

Sabbatical, Part 11 [fog]

2011-04-05T11:53:00.002-05:00

My drive back to San Francisco was foggy. Now, for my friends who haven’t been to the west coast, let me clarify. What we’re dealing with is like the fog that makes Illinois schools postpone regional basketball games — only worse. You know the magic carpet ride in Aladdin? While they’re singing “A Whole New World”? And they each hold a little cloud? It was kinda like that.

It wasn’t like I couldn’t see where I was going. (Don’t worry. I would have stopped and waited for it to pass, Mom.) But sometimes I’d be driving around one of the bends that, I’m sure, looks out for a beautiful coastal view over the shoulder. But all I could see was the road I was on and a wall of pure white at the cliff’s edge. Sort of like driving Libby’s pink Hot Wheels convertible around and around our house (until we put a ding in the dishwasher and it was determined that this was only suitable as an outdoor toy).

And it wasn’t like this all the time. A lot of the time, it would lighten up and make for some picturesque countryside panoramas.

The next week when I was visiting my friends Sarah and Sebastian, we were south of SanFran and could literally see the fog “burning off” — clouds of white rolling up, up and away.

The fog struck me as symbolic. I couldn’t always see through it. Sometimes it really made me slow down. But seeing the landscape with this varying fog made me appreciate its beauty in a new light. And it was unique. The fog-and-sun play was different that day than it’s ever been.

It’s like my life. I don’t know what the next job I do will be. I don’t even know what my days will look like next week. But I’m here, now. I get to be moving at a slower pace, appreciating a different vantage. Today — and my view of it — is unlike any other day in history.

Sabbatical, Part 10 [Redwoods]

2011-03-27T23:52:00.001-05:00

I can’t imagine a better place on earth to go to get perspective. Hiking in the Redwoods, you realize just how tiny you are. The ridges in the bark as big as your hand. You have an appreciation for time. These trees are centuries older than you. How short must your days seem to them.

And now, a short poem about some tall trees.

Trees as old as earth—
Walking in their shadow
You realize how small
Are your questions
And are you.
Today will end.
Tomorrow will come.
Walk in the shadows and in the light.
Don’t dwell too long in darkness.
See the day.

Sabbatical, Part 9 [list of things learned]

2011-03-10T22:36:00.006-06:00

The next morning, I was off again!
This time I took the coast the whole way. It was breathtaking. Even in fog.

I stayed at two motels on my way back to San Francisco. My excuse is that is was rainy, rainy.

I stopped at a picnic area on the beach for lunch one day and wrote a short list of things I’d seen/learned:

-How stunning the coast can be in a storm — and how utterly dreary.
-Rain that turns to little snow drops that dissolve instantly — you wouldn’t even know it was snow if it didn’t look like a bunch of white fleas attacking your windshield.
-And then it turns into giant plops of snow that drift elegantly from heaven.
-Oregon is where I’d go to hitchhike, bike or drive the coast again.
-The cost you save at a motel versus a hotel means: no hallways, little heat, no free shampoo, no alarm clock, no sound barrier through paper walls.
-College towns are where you should go to find cute coffee shops but not cheap hotels — go to casino towns for that.
-You can’t pump your own gas in Oregon, and you can’t tip the gas attendant. That’s just … nice!
-Road trips are most lonely when you get into cities and least lonely when you are busy having your breath stolen by the scenery.

Here are some more photos. And, yes, I drove on the beach. Don't worry 'bout it.

Sabbatical, Part 8 [Seattle]

2011-03-03T10:16:00.001-06:00

I made it to Seattle. In perfect timing to meet up with Scottie and celebrate the day of his birth — actually one hour early.

I wandered downtown. I was wearing my dad’s camo coat because it was raining — and alternating with SNOW. (Thanks, Seattle.) I felt like people were staring at me and giving me weird looks. This alienation was the first time I’d felt lonely on the entire trip. Hours and hours of driving on isolated coastal highway alone, no problem. One hour in the city alone, so alone. So thankful I didn’t just spend the whole first week in SanFran alone. I’d have cried myself to sleep.

But soon I met up with Scott and his gf. We spent the rest of the night with friends of his, celebrating him. It was so wonderful to see that he was well taken care of and so fun to meet his friends.

The next morning, we talked and talked in his kitchen — first over breakfast and about two hours later over lunch. He’s a good friend with whom deep conversation is a given. It was a good turnaround visit on the journey. More fodder for the drive south.

We talked more as we slogged through sand at Golden Gardens Park, where last March we and three other Omaha friends had made a campfire on the beach. Today was a dreary, stereotypical Seattle day. I knew there were mountains across the Sound, but we sure couldn’t see them.

Next, we went to a class at Mars Hill, where Scott is studying psychology. Dan Allender, one of the founders of the school, was the professor. It seems like a pretty amazing school, and I know some pretty amazing people who have graduated from it. I mean, you know it’s a good class when a post-finals make-up class is 80% attended.

I took notes. I cried. And I’m not even looking to do this with my life.

Here are a few things I heard.

1. Dissociation comes from desire – because you’re afraid it won’t be met.
2. When you’ve come through a dark time and you start to feel hope again, you might find yourself fighting against it. You’ve felt so much disillusion that these new illusions are making you anticipate the dissing.
3. Endings are engagements with death.

The first makes so much sense it seems a universal truth.

Point two gave me greater understanding for myself. I have begun to feel hope again, but it’s been countered by depression. It’s a seesaw. And it all makes sense.

Number three made me nervous, because I’m not that great at endings. I have a really hard time saying goodbye, and I always want to hold onto things. I wondered what it might mean down the road.

That was the big BCS bowl game night, so we lightened the mood by going to watch the game at a sports bar with Tom and Vincenzo, whom I’d met the night before. Pizza slices bigger than an 8.5x11 sheet of paper. Heaven.

Sabbatical, Part 7 [a place of rest]

2011-03-01T23:02:00.003-06:00

My outlook brightened in the morning hours.

Refreshed. Rested. Ready to camp.

In the afternoon, I stopped at a coffee shop long enough to scout out some places to camp in Oregon. I saved a PDF of the map directing me there. I was excited about it.

However, when I finally made it there, once pulling over to check out my PDF map (lights that bright when driving at night, not a good idea, by the way), I found that the campground was about 100 yards from the interstate. I drove around the different campsites and stopped to get out. Cars whirring nearby. Semi-trucks practically on top of you. It seemed ... dangerous. And I'm not much of a worrier.

No, my insides told me. I listened.

I knew there were some hostels in Eugene, and I called Mom and Dad to look up the phone number for me. They were funny, all chatty and happy to be helping me. And they wanted to know what I would find out at the hostel.

The lady at Mia Casita had a Hispanic accent with East Coast phrases like “fuggetaboudit.” I still had a couple hours between me and Eugene, and she kindly told me: “I would love to have you come and stay, but with that far to go this time of night and in this weather, fuggetaboudit.”

I didn’t know there was “weather” to worry about, but I later found it was snowing in the passes. Not really anything to worry about for a Midwesterner driving-wise, but I was pretty glad I hadn’t camped.

The nice hostel hostess told me a few towns to check for cheap hotels and wished me well.

I called Mom and Dad back and had them look up the towns she had recommended. In the end, my mom pulled out her old, well-used, much-loved Super 8 directory. She called the number for one and reserved me a room.

When she called back several minutes later, she told me she’d talked to a young man by the name of Ethan (or something like that). “I told him to be on the lookout for my daughter, and to give her the very best deal he could possibly manage because she just finished four years being a missionary and needed to do this sabbatical trip, and she needs to rest well and be refreshed.”

I was in love with my mother.

“And I told him to throw on an AARP discount, because the bill will come to us. You can have one night on us.”

My eyes, sure enough, welled up, and I thanked her.

This is my mother. She might not fully understand this thing I feel I need to do, but she will take what she does understand, and she will communicate it on my behalf until the stars align for me. My needs are her needs.

I pulled into the hotel. Entering, I saw a kid who looked about 12.

“Ethan?”

“Yes.”

“I believe you spoke to my mom,” I said with a goofy grin. “Sorry about that.”

“She was very nice.”

“Yeah, she is.”

From my room, I called Mom back to let her know was all checked in.

“So Ethan took care of you?”

Sabbatical, Part 6 [golden mean]

2011-02-15T21:33:00.003-06:00

I did have second thoughts that morning.

So many people had warned me of different things. The woman on the plane: “No rest stops.” The woman at the hotel counter: “You’ll be safer here.” Mom: “You need to make sure your insurance covers you… and that … [insert running list here].”

And everyone I told about my trip asked, “Are you going alone?”

Yes.

Although I had asked a few friends to consider coming with me and although a dear friend would join me in a week to explore San Francisco, I was driving nearly 2,000 miles by myself.

The idea didn’t bother me at all. But what if I’d been wrong? What if I’d need someone else to drive a shift? What if I couldn’t make it to Seattle? Would Scott be disappointed if I missed his birthday? Will I feel guilty? Should I just try to figure out a way to stay here, at this lovely inn, for the week?

WHY ISN’T THIS RESTFUL!? Man, maybe I should have just spent a couple weeks vegging out in front of Mom and Dad’s TV.

This was all being worked out in my journal. I turned the page.

But this is my launching pad.

A few times I said aloud to the coast: Shut up.
You’re too beautiful. You’re showing off.

Ok, so maybe I could have budgeted more carefully to know exactly what I could afford. But I’ve been working and saving. I hardly spend money in real life.

And this is important to me.
So. I’ll sleep at a lodge if I need to.
And I will enjoy my king-sized bed in the ambience of ocean waves. Damn straight.

And, Scott, I might not make it to Seattle. If not, I’m sorry.

But this trip is for me.

A journey, not a destination.

This was a vital piece for me to remember. I thought about how much I’d been talking this trip up, my hopes for it and its role in my life.

I have a tendency to do this. Like the work I’d left. I had romanticized it from day one. I had over-identified with it, let it dictate so much about my personality. I don’t want to trivialize it, either. True, I romanticized it. But that’s only because I believed in the work I was a part of. So the truth about this job is somewhere between romanticized and trivialized. The golden mean.

And this trip I wanted to take wouldn’t be some epic quest that would lead me to a new self. It was just a trip. A journey.

It would be a journey toward hope and health, even if those themes weren’t magically perfected in 11 days.

And I did love getting to be on that journey.

Valentines

2011-02-14T22:55:00.000-06:00

Valentine’s fell on a Monday, which happens to be Mandy Monday, the day of the week I get to hang out with that wonderful West family.

I texted Kimberly in the morning to offer to babysit so she and Silas could go on a date. She called me back and said that a friend had already offered to watch the kids, so why didn’t I come over and we could have a vegetable-filled meal and eat in front of a few episodes of Modern Family.

Beef bourguignon, peas, salad, wine … crème brulee! It was an absolute feast.

A few hours later, Silas picked up the kids. They were in such a good mood from playing with friends.

In the chaos of getting ready for bed, Silas said something sassy and playful to Jedi. Jedi marched over, pushed up his sleeves, and took a fighter’s stance … sort of. He jabbed at Silas playfully, and then the two wrestled. Elijah came up, first defending Jedi, then switching teams. Adia piled on, on Jedi’s team. Soon Elijah and Adia were chasing each other around the guys on the ground. Finally, Priya came in after finishing her toothpaste-muffled ABCs song. She sort of fell onto Silas, trying to join Jedi’s fight for justice.

Kimberly and I stood and watched and laughed. And then it was time for bed. Elijah had the hiccups while Kimberly was hugging him goodnight. “BAAAAH!” she yelled, trying to scare him.

I feel very lucky to be in a house with so much love on this, the day of love.

Sabbatical, Part 5 [what I need]

2011-02-09T23:50:00.004-06:00

Later that afternoon, I arrived in San Francisco. I got my rental car, a 2011 Nissan Versa — a 2011 so it was sure to have an auxiliary port, a Nissan so it’s trunk was accessible only by key; a Versa because it’s in the Tiny Line, the cheapest ones. The guy at the counter was very nice.

I stopped at a grocery store and picked up a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a bag of clementines, and a bottle of mango juice. This is essentially what I ate for the next six days.

Finally, I was on my way! It was already pushing 5 o’clock, which felt like 7 to a midlander.

I found my way to Route 1. The dream began.

It was so beautiful! And so twisty. I hadn’t expected the roads to be so windy. As the sun dropped in early January timing, I navigated these crazy roads for a while in the dark. I had hoped to get to Fort Bragg that first night. But it was more than a hundred miles away, and I was inching along. Agh. I was getting so tired. And I had wanted to set my rhythm to the sun so that I’d be driving in daylight as much as possible.

I had a few decisions to make. One was if I’d try to camp. Two, how much farther would I go, and how would that affect the next two days?

If I didn’t get near Fort Bragg, that would add hours to already long driving days. I’d never get to Seattle at this rate. But if I didn’t stop soon, I might just pass out on the windy road and slip away into the ocean unnoticed. I was mad that I felt guilty for wanting to stop early — it was against the whole nature of my trip. It’s a journey, not a destination. It’s flexible. I can do what I need and want to do.

It was time to stop. I stopped at one campground and looked around. A few RV trailers had stopped there and set up camp on the beach. I got out of the car. It was freezing! I decided that I needed to sleep really well and that getting a hotel for the night was worth it. I'd try to sleep like 12 hours. I could still be up at sunrise.

With that relief, I looked up. The sky was clear and filled with stars. “Billie Jean” drifted out my window as I smiled up at the sky and twisted my feet in sand.

Slightly refreshed from remembering how lucky I was to be on this trip and from the cool air, I got back in the car.

Awhile later, I pulled off at one lodge, decided it would be way too expensive, and drove off before I even went in.

Finally, I entered the tiny town of Gualala, a pathetic 115 miles from San Francisco. I saw a small inn and pulled in, almost instinctually. I took a nervous breath. It would be expensive. If it was too much, I'd ask about a cheaper place.

I entered the office and found a pleasant woman in her 40s. I asked how much a room for one would be. $140 for one on the first floor; $160 for the top floor.

"Hmm. Do you know of anywhere that's just real cheap within an hour north?"

"Let me see here. I think I can make a call." She moved to a desk and pulled out a phone book.

"Thanks," I said warmly, though my eyelids felt thick and my face felt sluggish. I must have looked as exhausted as I felt.

She offered me a room for $110. "It's the cheapest I can do."

I hesitated only a moment. "I'll take it. I'm so tired."

"Good. It's a good price, since we're on the coast. And I feel much better with you staying here. It's safer than this other place."

She got me out a key — a real key, not a card — and started telling me how to turn on the fireplace. "It is a bit cold, but you could crack open your patio door and listen to the ocean as you sit by the fire."

Best money I ever spent.

There were mints on the pillows. There was a complimentary bottle of sparkling cider in the fridge. There were a jacuzzi and bath robes for two. Fireplace. Balcony overlooking the ocean. A giant king-size bed.

I think I cried.

I can't really remember. I was a zombie fumbling around. I turned the fireplace on and cracked the door. I went outside for a second — too cold, came back in. I walked around, trying to make sense of my packing, trying to find my toothbrush, trying to find my pajamas. I gave up on the pajamas and stripped down to the t-shirt and underwear I was already wearing. I turned the fireplace off. I shut the door. I collapsed into bed and found sleep as I rolled in the ocean waves that filled my ears, even with the door shut.

I didn't set an alarm. I knew I'd wake up. Sometime.

It was the crack of dawn. This schedule was awesome. I rolled out of bed and found pants and the camera my dear friend let me borrow. I went out on the balcony. It was lovely. The sun was stretching shadows over the shoreline. I might have cried again.

This is the greatest way a person can ever start the day. Sunrise on the ocean, a camera, a cup of coffee, a journal. A realization that ten more days of vacation sit before you and that, when you return home, your life will be completely unlike it's ever been, and you are free to decide what will become of it.

Sabbatical, Part 4 [the flight]

2011-02-08T21:37:00.001-06:00

I left on a Friday morning. It was obscene the amount of luggage I’d been allowed to carry on (bless you, Eppley!). I was wearing my dad’s camouflage hunting coat (warm AND waterproof—I was going to Seattle, after all). I had a hiking backpack the size of a human torso. I had clipped on a sleeping bag to that. And I had another, smaller shoulder bag that held my purse and my laptop. I had wanted to put the sleeping bag in it, but it didn’t quite fit. But I made it through security. One man at the Frontier desk asked me if I was going to check my bag. I looked at him and said, less confidently than I should have, “No, I’m going to carry it on.” And I’d made it.

I went to my gate and sat as discreetly as possible in an empty row of chairs facing the window.

A lady was standing at the window, watching the plane come to the gate.

She turned and looked at me and said, “You got to carry all this on, and I had to check my other bag that’s the same size as this?!” She pointed at a fairly small roller suitcase, about 18x18x9. She also had a small handbag. Technically, that was three bags. I only had two.

I was so annoyed. Yes, I carried on more than should have been allowed. But please don’t make a big stink. I really don’t want to spend an extra 20 bucks. Please just leave me alone.

I laughed lightly and said, “I know. I’m hoping there won’t be a problem.”

She said, “I know. No one wants to pay the extra fee. I don’t know why they made me check mine. Probably needed some extra money.”

I laughed uncomfortably.

“So are you actually going hiking, or is that just how you pack?” she asked, friendlier than before.

“Yeah, I am hoping to hike. I’ve packed a whole tent in here.”

“Oh, I know. My boys have those tiny little things. Sleeping bags the size of your fist.”

She sat down next to me, and we chatted like this a bit more, and I lightened up a bit. If some flight attendant came and made me check a bag, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

I pulled out my boarding pass to check my seat number. She glanced over. “Oh! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snoop,” she said. “I just noticed you’re in 15, and so am I. Isn’t that wild? I’ve never talked to anyone in the terminal, and here I am, talking to a person in my row. But I’m A, and you’re C, so I guess that doesn’t mean we’ll be sitting together.”

When the luggage cart came out to the plane, she stood up and again went to the window. “Where is it? I only see five bags, and none of them are mine. They’d better get it on there after making me check it.”

I made an agreeable sound.

She came back and sat down. “My husband passed away December 13.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, still expecting her to say “two years ago” and talk about the anniversary of his death.

“He was cremated, and I had the ashes divided up for my three sons. One of those little containers is in that bag, so I can give it to my son in Denver. That’s why I’m so paranoid about my bag.”

Rightly so. Wish I could give her some of my bag space now.

Soon, we boarded the plane. She got ahead of me somehow. Once aboard, I noticed the seats to the right of the aisle were A and C. We’d be sitting together after all. I smiled.

When I got to my seat, we greeted each other again. I set down my smaller bag and felt several eyes on me as I shoved my backpack into the overhead compartment. I had to try it twice, but it finally went in. Relieved, I plopped into my seat.

“I hope there’s not a problem with that bag. Everyone hates me,” I whispered to my new friend.

“No, you did great,” she said.

We talked a lot on the way to Denver. I asked her questions about her husband and her sons. She asked me about my trip and advised me, “No rest stops. Only gas stations, ok?” When I told her I like to write, she asked me my name, in case I ever got famous. Hers is Kathy.

I thought about all the emotions this woman must be going through. A three-week widow.

I thought about other hard things that my own loved ones are going through.
Visa denial and having to leave the country.
Your partner having to leave the country.
Prostate cancer.
Separation.
Drug and alcohol rehab treatment.
Miscarriage.
Pregnancy.
Inability to get pregnant.

And suddenly I felt very selfish. All sorts of things like this have been going on for four years, but I’ve focused so much on telling other people my own needs that I haven’t fully noticed what’s been going on in other people’s lives.

We parted ways warmly in Denver. I’m very thankful for that brief encounter.

Sabbatical, Part 3 [doing it!]

2011-02-07T16:55:00.002-06:00

I’d sort of given up on my little trip.

It had faded like so many dreams do. But some good friends asked me about it and reminded me how much it had meant to me.

Ok, so maybe I won’t drive. I’ll do a short version. I booked a flight to San Francisco for 11 days of adventure. I wasn’t sure where I’d stay yet, but I figured I could get around with public transportation and I could find a place to stay that would allow me space to write and think—the things I wanted from my mini-sabbatical.

My friend Christina was coming out for a few days on the tail end of my trip, so we could really see the city. I’d have the first week to introspect.

But as I was talking to a friend who has spent a lot of time in San Francisco, she thought it might be a lonely city to spend a week in not knowing anyone. I remembered how much I wanted to drive the coast, hike in redwoods, explore.

Yes! I rented a car for a week and made plans to drive up to Seattle and back. The route was flexible. The distance each day was flexible. I could go my own pace. I could stop and take a lot of pictures. In short, I was going to do the dream.

TED: Work-life balance

2011-02-07T16:53:00.000-06:00

Sabbatical, Part 2 [a dream]

2011-02-04T17:49:00.002-06:00

My friend Linsey told me about this trip she’d taken with her boyfriend (now husband!) along the west coast, up Route 1. I want to do that! I’ve always wanted to do that!

I dreamed up a trip in which I’d drive through Colorado, down to L.A., up the California coast. I could swing by Yosemite, and keep heading north. Spend some time in Portland. Visit Scott in Seattle. Drive through Glacier. Head home.

I could do it in December. It would be perfect timing, a real sabbatical period.

But then, a temporary job I took on in October needed me in December. I decided to stay. I needed the money. Badly. And the only way I’d be able to afford this dream trip was if I dug into my savings—my pathetically tiny savings. This temporary job paid well, and could pay, for one thing, my bills for a few months and, two, the trip.

The job I’d be leaving was a support salary—I raised my finances through donations from very generous loved ones. I was falling behind. I could take a lower salary, but even that might not land me in the positive. And I had to pay the organization back if I left in the negative.

In one act of desperation, I gave plasma to see if this could be another way for me to make some money. However, the process, which landed me three ice packs when I almost blacked out, wiped me out for three days. I decided it wasn’t something my body could handle on a regular basis.

So I postponed the trip. Maybe I’d find time in January.

Suheir Hammad at TED

2011-02-04T14:51:00.000-06:00

Sabbatical, Part 1

2011-02-03T13:52:00.000-06:00

This is a story that begins with an ending.

I ended four years of a job I had once imagined staying at forever. Because that’s what dedicated people did. They stayed.

I’m not a quitter. In fact, I often continue to pursue and drag out friendships well beyond their prime. Sometimes it’s loyalty. Sometimes it’s self-abuse, fear of losing something that once resembled friendship.

In the case of this job, there were many reasons I eventually left. For many months before that point, when I’d start to think about leaving, I would journal about the reasons I would leave, contemplate them with my pen.

What finally pushed me over the fence of staying/leaving was when I asked myself, “Ok, so you know the reasons you would leave. Why would you stay?”

I stared at the notebook page until the blue lines blurred together. The only thing keeping me there was a sense of guilt when I contemplated leaving, the thought that I’d be abandoning my community.

The community offers sabbatical after six years of service, in reality more like eight or nine years. I had served four. If I could last through another two or three years, I could take sabbatical.

This was how I’d been bribing myself to stick around, besides the guilt. When I finally listened to what I was saying, I heard, “I just have to survive for another two years.” I realized how ridiculous this was. Why put myself through that? And if I needed to leave, the work I’d be doing would suffer, and that would not be good for the community.

So I put in my five months’ notice in June and completed my service in November.

Everlasting Light

2011-02-02T19:06:00.004-06:00

Today...
I replaced water with coffee.
I ran errands with Jara and was confused when an old man said to us, "Here come a couple nifty knickers."
I had a fun meeting with two collaborators. I love working together.
And I listened to this song a million times.

An Anderson family tradition

2011-01-31T17:19:00.002-06:00

Every summer, the Anderson family would make the 14-hour trek from Illinois to Georgia to see Nani, the kids’ grandmother. And it would take precisely 14 hours. Brent’s dad is goal-oriented, as well as loyal to traditions. They would make two stops — the same two every year. Those were the only chances the kids (and the adults) had to use a restroom. Otherwise, the boys would pee in pop bottles, and the girls would use diapers. Even Brent’s mom would use a diaper.

As the family grew, so did the vehicle. They started in a sedan and progressed to a station wagon. The back seat of the station wagon that could flip up made for a nice privacy section when one of the girls had to make use of a diaper. Eventually, the Andersons bought a 15-passenger van. The kids — today numbering 11 — would alternate laying out, floor, seat, floor, seat to the back, where Brent’s dad had laid a piece of plywood on two legs on top of the spare tire, and a mattress on top of that. Brent remembers this as the best spot to lay; but his brother, Eric, remembers it as excessively hot and smelling of exhaust.

Brent’s parents adopted eight kids over the years. Brent, who was born first and is now third in line, remembers being invited into the decisions of welcoming each new brother or sister into the family. And though Brent’s dad often had four jobs at once, and food was tight enough that Brent’s parents put padlocks on the fridge and cabinets (until a friend of the younger siblings suggested they simply unscrew the hinges), the family was abundant in love.

Scrabble was the game of choice at Nani’s house. But the family didn’t play by the normal rules. You could say, “I think this is a word,” play your word, and then check it in the dictionary. There were no “challenges.” Of course, just verifying that it was a word wasn’t enough — the definition would be read aloud, so that everyone could learn. If you couldn’t think of any word to play — even one to check in the dictionary — you’d just turn your letters around so everyone could help.

Brage (the sister in line directly after Brent) was the most competitive. She would claim a triple-word score spot three moves before her turn, even sometimes convincing a sibling to remove their tiles.

Brage also acquired a deep Southern drawl within the first few days of a Georgia visit. She’d say, “Hay, Breant, wanna go fishun’?” Incredulous at her accent, he’d scream, “Stop that!” She’d slowly reply, “I. can’t. healp. it.”

(Thanks so much, Brent.)

Ok, my turn: Black Swan

2011-01-27T23:04:00.003-06:00

I just have a few things to say.

It's ok. I like some things about it. Some of it was extremely disturbing. And parts of it made me laugh out loud. They were not supposed to. Namely, the knee-popping scene and the webbed toes scene. Seriously. I laughed out loud. Right after gasping in disgust.

And how many times do we need to see her bloody hangnails? Move on!

Finally ... my most profound critique. It was hard to watch the scenes with the coach when he reminded me of this character from The Simpsons:

Hip, hip, Tim!

2011-01-27T00:32:00.007-06:00

I have this darling friend. His name is Tim. His birthday was Sunday, and tonight he and his partner, Cait, threw a delightful dinner party. This reminded me that I have not posted a very great video of Tim from the last dinner party, as well as some not-good photos. And, tonight, as an ode to Tim, some notes I made after the last dinner.

I think my favorite thing about Tim is that he gives real hugs--he squeezes hard the way some boys are afraid to. And he initiates them.

I love his quiet calm. I love that the night we hung out with their hippie friends he'd tell me quiet asides about himself.

And he's really funny. His Julia Child impersonation. Oh my God. And the food.
Sipping wine.
Chicken that practically melts when you look at it.
Figs with walnuts in some sort of angel-tear sauce.
Ratatouille!?!
Butternut-squash soup.
And, my God, there was bread.
We were giddy.

Music dispute. Sweet, energetic electronica. Mellow singers who can fucking sing.
"Oh God. I can't listen to this. It was on at Olive Garden every time." -Caldwell

Cait's candle spilled. The one from circle for a Flow Time, a I-fucking-love-my-life-right-now Time. We let the wax cool, scraped it up, put it back in. Reassambled candle.

The cat wants to climb in the dishwasher or under the fridge-- "Oh my God, there's so many mice under there." -Caldwell (fuzzy toy mice)

Brit is goofy from her stitches, which she can't clean herself, but now everyone else can.

Tuna Pal. Pal?
"A colloquial term for 'friend' or 'dear one,' usually said with a tilt of the head." -Tim

Marcia's lounging on the couch like a Roman, and Liz is in the dentist chair.

Cait was never taught to put things in a place.

Cait and Tim waltz around the kitchen.

"White meat." -Calvin

New year.

2011-01-23T22:51:00.003-06:00

Welcome 2011.
It's a year of living differently.

Thinking back to last January, I remember my body telling me to slow down. I decreased my obligations. I spent more time at home. I think the biggest victory was doing what I wanted to do, even if that meant doing nothing.

I began this year by taking a mini-sabbatical. Eleven days of adventure, things I've always wanted to do.

I'm excited about the explorations I've been making, and I think you'll soon read about some of the discoveries.

And while this site has been quiet, my insides have not been. I suppose I've withdrawn from outward speculation because there's been so much inward.

Part of it, too, is that I've been taking big steps, and, if I'm going to write about them, I want to do them justice.

Another hesitation I've come across is how much of my personal journey I'm in the mood to share with the public.

So, here's to exploration.
Cheers.

Peaceful holiday morning

2010-11-29T14:39:00.002-06:00

I came downstairs Thursday morning around 10:30. Mom and Dad were discussing the turkey and what to do with it. Their 23-pound bird was done cooking in the roasting oven they always use two hours before it should have been, according to the annual turkey-cooking records they keep.

Dad, from his office that looks into the kitchen, was merrily reading aloud a verbose e-mail addressed to Butterball. He asked what some possible reasons might be for the shorter-than-expected cook time and what to do with the bird in the meantime. The message was polite and eloquent, and the parting line read, “I appreciate your prompt reply.”

He perused the website some more and discovered an 800 number for Thanksgiving crises such as the one at hand.

Elated, he dialed and held for a minute as his call was processed. He was chatty with the turkey expert.

Possible reasons for the shortened cook time (as the expert listed them, Dad repeated them for our benefit): Each bird cooks uniquely. The roasting oven may have evolved in its cooking. The meat may have been more thawed and, thus, at a warmer starting temperature.

What to do with the turkey in the meantime: Remove from the cooking bag, wrap it in foil and put it back in the oven at a lower temperature (meat temperature maintained at least 140, I think). Let it rest until almost mealtime, then carve.

It will be well rested, our turkey expert teased. “Might be asleep!” Dad agreed.

An October night

2010-11-22T15:26:00.001-06:00

We talked today about small versus big.

I’ve gotten caught up in the big, and it’s taking me out of the small.

“This moment, I’m here with you. It’s all I need. To be here and know you. I am present in this moment. Isn’t this moment great?”

Oh, yeah!

Living existentially, living each of the small things — that’s what life is about. If we get too caught up in the big, we’ll keep waiting for something to happen. When we enjoy the small, we somehow find that big things have happened.

“The small stuff — that’s where the juice is.”

So tonight, I stood in the dark room with my friends listening to ethereal music sung by my friend Cait, the bass just loud enough to thump in my chest. I was wearing my fuzzy-lined shoes and my green fall jacket. My face rested against Brittany’s hair as my arm hung around her shoulders in front of me. The bittersweet aftertaste of Miller High Life danced on my tongue, and gentle wafts of my own perfume, Bond No. 9 from Jara, tickled my nose. I smiled like a Seven, enjoying this moment of my life surrounded by so much love.

Last account update

2010-11-18T11:12:00.002-06:00

Current balance: 585.05

This covers my $517 need for November! THIS IS IT!! We did it!!! THANK YOU!!!!!!!!

More sweet jumping photos

Account status update

2010-11-12T10:37:00.001-06:00

As promised, here’s my account status for the week:
Current balance: 163.43 (POSITIVE!!!!!!!)
Need to raise in November: 517
Total need: $354

Thank you, thank you, thank you! :)

This is it

2010-11-04T14:53:00.005-05:00

I'm getting a little sentimental.

Gary just dropped off our proof of The Cry. It's the last issue I'll ever do.

So, it was delivered to me in the largest manila envelope I've ever seen. When it first arrived, the comedic factor of the envelope overshadowed the finality of this issue.

And then I looked through it.

It's beautiful.

I don't know if I've ever been so proud.

It reminds me of Chris' and my last issue of the Andersonian. We went to visit the press that printed our newspaper--something we'd wanted to do for months and only finally did on our last chance. I teared up at the sight of our paper on the big press--a combination of sleep deprivation (I pulled an all-nighter the night before) and a sense of finality.

Today, looking through the strange proof-quality pages of The Cry, I felt a bit of that same finality. Whoa. This is it.

So, be on the lookout around Thanksgiving time for that purple issue of The Cry with a really lovely annual report insert.

November 2010 prayer letter

2010-11-03T12:43:00.002-05:00

Hello my beloved friends, family and supporters.

This is my last prayer letter. Into it, I am whispering prayers for each of you. Prayers of blessing and gratitude. Prayers of remembrance.

Raising my support the last four years has been one of the greatest challenges of this job. It's also taught me the most. I've learned about God's provision. I've learned about the generosity of my fellow people. I've learned that a lot more people love me than I realized.

I am very thankful for my experience here at Word Made Flesh. I’m thankful for the many things I’ve learned. I’m thankful to have met some truly incredible people all around the world. I’m thankful to have been able to get solid experience editing, and I was able to realize how much I want to write. And words cannot begin to explain how utterly blessed I am that you've participated in this ministry with me.

I know I gush all the time about how great you all are. But it would just feel wrong not to end my time with one last gushy letter. ;-)

May God remember the gifts you have given, the love and support you've provided, the sacrifices you've made to help me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Love,

Mandy Mowers

Ok, here’s my account status:
Current balance: -728.07
Need to raise in November: 517
Total need: $1245

I got another job that I have begun part time now. I have lowered my salary at WMF to avoid going into debt (hence the smaller numbers I’ve estimated above). Since this is my last letter, I will update my account status on my blog every week.

If you'd like to give online, go here and fill in my name under the designation. THANKS! :)

Beck-and-call girl

2010-10-21T12:44:00.003-05:00

I am being paid to wait around in corporate attire until my proofreading skills are suddenly needed. (Not typically a to-the-rescue kind of skill.)

There are moments when I feel like I’m just not going to make it. I think, they surely can’t want this. There are only so many times I can read through a style guide.

And then, as I am taking the briefest glimpse possible at my gmail for the 10th time this hour, I think, this could be worse.

So I wait.

Three jobs

2010-10-21T12:44:00.001-05:00

So I have three jobs right now.

It’s more disorienting than I’d imagined. Mondays and Fridays I go to the new place, an ad agency where I’m a proofreader. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays I stay at Word Made Flesh. Unless I have the WomenCreate Leadership Circle on Friday (as is the case this week—only my second week of this schedule.) In that case, I work at the ad place Monday and Thursday and at WMF Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday morning.

Confused? That’s my point.

And somewhere in the midst, I’m writing my first article for the Omaha World-Herald’s Niche Publications. It’s been fun returning to interviewing folks and desperately scribbling notes (I’ve got to remember how to do this).

It’s exciting, albeit confusing. So many new things.

The truth is, I’m a little overwhelmed. I don’t want to admit this, because that might be admitting some sort of defeat. And I can’t do that.

Tyrannosaurus

2010-10-20T11:15:00.002-05:00

I was sitting on the stool in the kitchen, very near the door to the upstairs, talking with Kimberly as she cooked dinner.

Suddenly, Priya popped out of the stairway door and came directly at me, like she'd been expecting me to be sitting there. She came at me with four fingers extended, two on each hand--the peace fingers, like a Nixon in attack mode.

"I'm a Tyrannosaurus Rex!"

I almost fell off the stool, laughing.

Shortly thereafter, Elijah came downstairs on all fours. He lunged up at me and grabbed around my waist with both arms. "I'm a mountain lion!"

Today

2010-10-15T17:56:00.000-05:00

On the way to work, I saw wild turkeys on the side of Dodge.
On the way home, I saw a single blue balloon drift up into the white sky.

Oh, Ira.

2010-09-14T16:22:00.001-05:00

I found this again. He's so smart.

Over-the-phone Macgyver

2010-09-02T17:50:00.001-05:00

My phone rang from its spot on the nightstand. Hilary.

Bleary-eyed, I saw the red numbers of my alarm clock. 4:44.

I answered in a thick voice, with a slow mind. She was talking about the doorknob falling off. She couldn't open the door. She was trapped. And she was cry-laughing, sounding hysterical.

I could almost understand. I was swimming through the weeds, almost to the surface.

"I have to go to the bathroom, but I can't get out of the bedroom."

Ohh. Ok. My roommate was trapped. But not in her room. She's house-sitting.

I was up now. And starting to ask questions to understand the situation. There's only one door out, and she was on the second floor. The doorknob had come detached, the short end on her side. She couldn't turn the latch. The keys to the house were downstairs, and so was the code to the garage. I could come over, but we'd have to call someone else for the code or a spare key.

"I tried to open it with my sunglasses. I don't know what to do. I really need to go to the bathroom." Here the laugh-sobs get stronger.

Ok. Calmly I replied, "It sounds like the urgency of getting out is because you have to pee so bad. Is there somewhere you can pee in the room?"

(Did that really come out of my mouth? Is this really happening?)

She put me down. I took apart my own doorknob to think of things to suggest. The contingency plan was to go over there, have her call and get the code. The step before that would be me going over and getting a screwdriver up to her. The best was to get something in that door that would open it up.

"Ok. I peed in a rain boot and threw it out the window."

Sweet.

In the end, she jimmied the latch with the straightened hanger. Plan A worked.

(Her version.)

Vocational discernment

2010-09-02T10:45:00.001-05:00

There’s this little book called Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation, by Parker Palmer.

It is beautiful, and so is he. This book has been an important part of my past several months. I am tempted to do a book report here, but I won’t. I simply want to include a segment that came to me like a deep breath as I was making the very difficult decision of leaving my current work:

If I try to do something noble that has nothing to do with who I am, I may look good to others and to myself for a while. But the fact that I am exceeding my limits will eventually have consequences. I will distort myself, the other and our relationship…

Yes, we are created in and for community, to be there, in love, for one another. But community cuts both ways: when we reach the limits of our own capacity to love, community means trusting that someone else will be available to the person in need.

One sign I am violating my own nature in the name of nobility is a condition called burnout. Though usually regarded as the result of trying to give too much, burnout in my experience results from trying to give what I do not possess—the ultimate in giving too little! (pp. 47, 49)

It is extraordinarily humbling to finally recognize just what all you don’t possess, to admit that you might not be capable of this noble thing that made you look good and feel good, to feel like you’re disappointing others’ and your own estimation of yourself. But, ultimately, this truth will liberate you.

So swallow hard and look it in the face.

My mom said this to me on the phone

2010-08-30T10:20:00.002-05:00

I was just thinking of you when you were 4 years old. Your brilliant blond hair, flapping and light. You were so excited, such a grateful kid.

I love technology

2010-08-24T17:38:00.004-05:00

I am so so so so so so thankful for:
-friends who share internet
-friends who share iPods
-delicious podcasts, like This American Life

...among other things.

Dream a little dream with me

2010-08-19T17:52:00.000-05:00

Dear world,
I'm thinking of a mini-sabbatical after November.
Details to follow.

StoryCorps

2010-08-18T14:54:00.002-05:00

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

http://storycorps.org/

...

2010-08-16T10:47:00.001-05:00

there's just so much to catch up on...

Signs of sadness

2010-08-06T20:41:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: This is a downer post.

I was reading through my journals from the last several months. Sometimes the signs are all around you, but you just can't read them for some reason. I don't even remember writing all of these, but going back with understanding, I can understand what my body was trying to tell me.

I don’t want to save the world today.
Today I want to curl up into a ball on somebody’s lap and have my hair played with and my back rubbed soothingly, delicately, because I am delicate.

I don’t want to save the world.
I want somebody to save me, to save my world.
To put to rest my fears of never being madly loved, of being inadequate or scary, too much or not enough.
I want to know that the life I’ve created, the story I’m a part of, has a happy ending,
brings about hope, has a purpose,
is cherishable.

I want the squiggly lines to go away
And to be left instead with certain love, clear meaning, deep hope.

That is all, thank you.

O little sun,
little ball of light and warmth,
abounding with joy and radiance.
Merrily bouncing through your happy, perfect life,
you always found more light to spread,
more warmth to share.
What has happened, little sun?
Why are you tattered and cracked?
Your yellow is fading and your light is spilling.
Don’t die, sweet sun.
We need your happy warmth.

My life is disappearing
It is taken over by obligation
and duty
and try-and-fail methods

It’s very possible that I am or could go crazy.
Sometimes I want to give myself a wild push to the other side.

All of life feels upside down
like pineapple cake.
The things you put in
first aren’t where
you expect.
Every element
is uncertain.
And I can only ask,
What am I doing with my life?
and sigh heavily.

I’m not so much sad as numb.
I’m so nothing.
Nothing.
Void. Empty. Blank.

My blond arm hair is mussed
Shining golden in the sunlight
Reaching for the sun
Like tiny blades of grass

I wish I wanted to do
ANYTHING
I just want to curl up and be nothing
and not be bothered or bothersome

Sometimes getting more mail threatens to push me over the edge.
It’s all I can do to stay on top of it. It’s not even that I can’t pay my bills.
I just hate having more shit to deal with when I get home.

jittery writing

2010-06-13T15:21:00.000-05:00

When you sit and try to write but are feeling a little groggy, you think maybe coffee will help. Suddenly you do have energy. Your head is still a little fuzzy, but thoughts are stirring. And your legs start shaking. Your fingers are jittery. Your heart is racing. Now, all of that energy, you somehow have to channel through your fingers, past the fuzzy mind, beyond the jitters. Pull it out into a line you can put on the page. Until the keyboard becomes your instrument, the words your music.

waves

2010-06-10T13:44:00.001-05:00

It’s started raining outside in soothing droves.
The sun has disappeared and we are left in dark gray.
But the sky above is white.
An angry ocean turned on its head.
The rain falls in rhythmic waves against the pavement.
I am moved to the window, mesmerized.

Living each day

2010-06-09T13:09:00.005-05:00

It's tempting to live from one big thing to the next, always looking forward, never looking around. I hold my breath from Sunday night until Thursday at 5 (frisbee!). I get through.

I am tired of just getting through.

I am active. I have something planned most nights of the week, if not two things. I don't want to just make it through all these things, show up where I'm expected, put in my time. I'm not a robot-zombie.

I want to live!

I really want to live each day and make the most of it. This is refreshing!

Over the winter, I sensed I needed to slow down. I stepped back from a lot of things. I let some things die.

And now, we're ramping up for summer and the craziness therein. Stuff is coming at me, and I'm smiling in its face. Lots of work projects, summer Gathering, new writing experiments, community involvement, activities with friends, reading, running (?!), swimming...laughter, tears, pain, poverty, embrace, beauty... I'm Maxwell House, making every day good to the last drop.

I feel like I'm in a life-size, 3-D version of Guitar Hero. The notes are coming at me, and I'm moving to meet them.
Bring it.

I get my technology coping mechanism from my dad

2010-06-09T12:04:00.002-05:00

I was trying to figure out what is wrong with my connection to the downstairs printer (the color printer, the one that does front-and-back printing with a simple click of the mouse).

I was doing it when I wasn't rushing to complete a deadlined project so that I wouldn't be as stressed. You know, your throat starts to close up and you feel yourself turning splotchy red and getting hot.

But... it didn't really work. I got really angry anyway. I started swearing at my computer. This reminded me of my dad. I'd hear his squeaky roller chair thrashing about and loud profanity. Soon, he'd call my name in desperation. I'd find him, red-faced and sweating, holding his head. "Can you tell me how to do this?"

That's how I felt today. I was completely wrung out and defeated. I teared up.

Jara helped. I figured out the rest.

crazy day

2010-06-06T12:02:00.000-05:00

jellyfish
in blue and white
bold words
new email
not so much new
as unread,
more detailed

open page
two new emails
one thrilling
words that hint at what
I want to know
the other
irritating
what I don’t want to know
but know

fire started in kitchen
prayer on butts
best friend
same same
no words need be said
but we say them

and I almost killed the mail lady

a few inspirations

2010-06-02T11:14:00.003-05:00

This morning, two unrelated friends asked these questions:

What gift of your true self do you bring today?

What really matters, right where you are at, right now?

I threw together a dish that was deeply inspired by my time in Romania and Moldova.
corn
chick peas
salsa
avocado
pickle
dash of lemon juice
salt & pepper

It sounds disgusting. I was shocked that I actually loved it. I think it's the pickle. Thank you, Eastern Europe!

And, I wrote last night. Started at 11:30. 12:30 was the most awake I'd been. Tried to sleep at 1:15. Fell asleep smiling.

vocab: serios and hai

2010-05-27T11:39:00.002-05:00

I've decided to keep a few of the terms I learned in Romanian. Sometimes while I was lying in bed at the Chronics' I would repeat words to remember their sound. I'm weird.

I hope David and Lenuta didn't hear me saying, "Cuvuntal Intrupat," carefully emphasizing the last syllables, or, "Bună ziua."

When I saw Caleb at frisbee, he greeted me with, "Ce faci?" (not sure about the spelling, but it sounds like "che fach"). It delighted me.

My two favorites now.

"Serios" is "seriously." I don't know why, but I love love it. I'm going to use it all the time. Sorry for dropping a simple one or three letters.

And "hai" is like "come on" or "let's go" or "vamanos." Keeping it.

Thanks to all my friends for the language lessons. Soon I will become fluent. Haha. I wish.

My notes from STOP class last night

2010-05-06T15:11:00.002-05:00

Teacher. White ponytail and severe handlebar mustache. Hums "Yellow Submarine" while collecting tickets.

CPR on a cow. Why is this necessary?

Who is at fault? You are. (Must take more responsibility.)

Eye doctor (need to make an appt).

Dad always said, "Take care of your car, and your car will take care of you."

Help Help Help
Death Death Death

Starred: "For oncoming vehicles with high beams on, look to the side of the road at the white line." (I learned something!)

Don't speed in a work zone in Iowa --> $1,000. (Learned two things!)

Garrison

2010-05-05T16:33:00.003-05:00

We got to see Garrison Keillor last night.

Most of the day I was distracted by wondering who would take an extra ticket I had. I felt terribly irresponsible for not figuring it out sooner. I literally texted, called or wrote to 30 friends. And tweeted it, and facebooked it. Who wants this ticket?

Thankfully, a friend who LOVES Garrison was able to come at the last minute. Literally. He ran five blocks.

As I waited, the ushers, AKA Holland Center Sentinels, were scanning the entryway in their black-and-white uniforms, calling out, "Five minutes until performance time!" And then, "Two minutes until performance time! We have two minutes to get you ticketed and seated!" I heard this multiple times, seemingly directed at me, standing there, boldly not getting to my seat.

Matt came running in just as I was about to leave his ticket at Will Call or something. So we rushed up the stairs. The Sentinels lined the hallways, chagrined by our tardiness.

Phew! Only missed about 30 seconds.

In less than 45 minutes, I had to pee. But I held it. I had gone to the bathroom before it started. I was not going to face those Sentinels again. For a half-hour I debated getting up. I had a hard time focusing on the story-teller on stage. I checked the time to see if it was worth the wait. And finally the urge passed.

And then I couldn't stop wondering how Garrison had gotten on the stage. It was a wood semicircle with no exit. I hadn't seen him come onto the stage, so I didn't know how he got there. And while I was enjoying myself, I wanted it to end so I could see his exit. (One of the wood panels is a door that opens from the other side.)

It was a really fun event. But, boy, what a distracted day.

Two TED videos about inspiring leadership

2010-05-05T09:17:00.000-05:00

pet care

2010-04-27T10:04:00.004-05:00

Today I tested to see if there was a limit to how much you can feed your iGoogle pets. Hammy, yes. Fish, yes. Turtles, no. And then I refreshed the page, because they'd get sick if they ate all that.

I'm babysitting my friend's cat for a few weeks.
It sounds so easy when I put it that way.
Ruby is not, by nature, a friendly cat. And she's worse in a strange place.
Let's just say I've been bitten a few times.
But last night, I went down to say goodnight--the first time I'd been home since I'd told her good morning.
She curled up in my lap.
I pet her with both hands.
It was very sweet.

social justice, with stephen colbert

2010-03-19T09:46:00.001-05:00

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Glenn Beck Attacks Social Justice - James Martin

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor

Health Care reform

New every morning

2010-03-10T11:11:00.000-06:00

New every morning is your love,
great God of light,
and all day long you are working for
good in the world.
Stir up in us desire to serve you,
to live peacefully with our neighbors,
and to devote each day to your Son,
our Savior, Jesus Christ the Lord.
Amen.

From the Academy for Spiritual Formation (the Upper Room Prayerbook)
Posted on Prayers & Creeds

muted

2010-03-02T13:38:00.002-06:00

When I was in Tucson in January, I realized something about winter: It's muting our world. Color, smells, sounds. All are muted.

So now, the temperatures are rising. The snow has begun to melt. Our colors, smells and sounds are thawing.

we create

2010-02-23T14:17:00.001-06:00

Mini-creators.
You created us because you needed
something to love.

We got a little piece of you in us,
and that desire
thrums through our blood.

We need love
We crave it
We eat it with sunshine and greens
for a balanced diet.

We create and feel alive –
feel like gods.
We create and give back to you
a bit of the life you’ve given to us.

Do you pin our drawings at your desk or
on the fridge?
Do you save the videotapes and audio cassettes
we record?
Do you keep a little folder
with all our musings?

Do we make you proud?

Creation
deep speaks to deep
as poetry moves in the
heart of the reader
from the pulse of the poet.
Delightful play at god,
creating people and
worlds of our own.
Capturing this moment
for just a moment
with song or dance
or painting or film
or written word.

We can even create life
Two people in an act
of love
can make
a new heart
a new beat
a new breath
in the deep.

morning swim

2010-02-23T13:58:00.001-06:00

It is early for me, and I am not a morning person. Even though the process of getting here was difficult, there’s relief when I hang my red, pink, purple and blue striped towel with stitched cats on the ends, my locker key jingling from a safety pin. And though the water is never quite as warm as I remember it, it still feels like home.

I jump into the shallow end and take a few breaths before dipping my chest (the coldest part) and my head. My hair dissolves into this silk veil behind me. I pull it back into a ponytail, strap on my goggles and begin. A lap – 50 meters – first. Stop. Stand. Wipe out the goggles. Another 50. I’m rusty, but it feels good. Stop. Stand. Go. This time 100 – two laps; finish the 200. Now stretch out the biceps, lats, calves.

Deep breath. Go. Modified 200 IM – free, back, breast, free.

The chlorine has bonded with my skin. Like the mermaid in “Splash,” I transform in water to become part fish – this creature who belongs here.

When I make my backstroke turn at lap 19 and take in water through my nose, it doesn’t even burn my throat in that weird in-between, sinusy place anymore. That pungent chemical smell is friendly, familiar.

I stop at the end. The sun has risen and is beaming in, bouncing off the water, blindingly beautiful.

It’s going to be a good day.

Links to love

2010-02-19T10:23:00.002-06:00

Some things about love that I love that I got from someone I love.

MC Yogi - Give Love (Giving4Living Mix) from MC Yogi on Vimeo.

Not necessarily "about" love, but it's pretty fricking sweet:
http://www.inbflat.net/

And, bell hooks speaks

sunny day

2010-02-16T13:08:00.003-06:00

Sunday afternoon. Sun shining. 22 degrees. A fresh half-inch of snow on the ground.

The Jeep in front of me has its back windows down, and a golden retriever hangs his head out first the right and then the left window.

I rolled down my window, too. Felt the breeze, the sun on my pores. Rolled the window back up. Too cold. Ah, just the sun.

Two very important people (Dec 09 prayer letter)

2010-02-12T16:47:00.001-06:00

I’d like to tell you about two very important women in my life: Jara and Marcia. Right now, as Daphne is away on sabbatical, the three of us make up the Advocacy Team. I love that we’ve replaced “Department” with “Team” as a force of habit, usually abbreviating it “A-Team,” like the old TV series starring Mr. T.

There’s been something special about the way we’ve pulled together as a team who’s down a player, and I’ve really come to adore these women. They are two of my very best friends, and I get to work with them every day.

Marcia sits eight feet away from me. She hears all my out-loud responses to e-mail and verbal processing of grammar as I edit. When I sigh heavily and lean back in my chair, putting my hands on my face, it’s Marcia who will ask what’s wrong and how she can help. And she does help. Even just feeling supported is helpful. But then, when I’ve got three projects going in InDesign that I’m trying to finish by the end of the week, she’ll put aside what she’s working on to clack away on the typewriter some pull-quotes for The Cry.

And I try to do the same for her when she’s swamped—merrily joining her in stamping Beggars Society invites or stuffing Servant Team packets.

And Jara. I write this as she’s away on her honeymoon. I don’t know if we’ve ever been fonder of one another. We’ve hit this incredible stride together. We read one another’s minds. She will put finishing touches on a project I can’t bear to look at anymore, and I’ll proofread her work one last time. And sometimes we do these things for each other without even being asked. It’s a little freaky.

Jara is the one who emphasizes to me and Marcia that we matter—our sanity and well-being matters. She’s told me at times when I am at my worst to take personal time and rest—this project will get done, but you have to take care of yourself right now.

I wish I could capture the brainstorming sessions we’ve had together. These women are brilliant and creative and thoughtful, and the ideas that build when we work together are beautiful. And I honestly believe that we do the best work imaginable together.

This is the rosy side—the sunshiny, glossy, sweet-tasting side of working with these women. But we’ve also had disagreements. We’ve hurt one another. We’ve had conflict. But somehow we’ve learned how to work it all out. I can tell when I have hurt Marcia or Jara, and I know how to apologize. I know when they are holding something back, and I can draw it out. I can help them articulate what’s going on.

The truth is, I’ve lived my hardest times with Jara and Marcia—my saddest, darkest, most painful times. And I’ve also lived my brightest, most deeply joyful, truest-to-myself moments with them.

This is love. This is community. This is life to the full.

I write today grateful for the team I’m a part of. I write with gratitude to you who make it possible for me to be here.

With love,

Mandy

Gratitude: edits, memory

2010-02-04T16:01:00.002-06:00

Today I am grateful for The Cry's Editorial Committee. I am grateful for the people who go above and beyond to truly make it excellent. When I slack and send them messy content, they are gracious and cover my inadequacies. I'm convinced there will be a special place in heaven for these people.

I am also thankful for my short-term memory, on which I too heavily rely. Oh, this registration date is Feb. 15. I will remember to look back at this before then. And I will. As a kid, my favorite game was Memory, with the little pictures face down whose placement you'd memorize. I'm afraid it'll soon start to slip. I'll ask too much of my precious memory, and things will fall through the cracks. It happens sometimes already, especially when I'm stressed. So, today I thank my memory for working so hard.

Gratitude posts

2010-02-04T15:50:00.003-06:00

I'd like to start recording moments of appreciation. Marcia got me a book called Five Good Minutes in Your Body, and one of the exercises talks about bowing in Eastern cultures. Something you can do is think of someone or something you appreciate. Take a moment to revel in this appreciation. Then put your hands together like a prayer and slowly bow--an acknowledgment of appreciation.

I'm going to begin writing tributes to some of my objects of appreciation. These will be labeled with "gratitude."

Traditions

2010-02-03T15:00:00.002-06:00

I have habits. Traditions.

Probably 97% of my weekday lunches consist of a peanut butter sandwich (no jelly), an apple and some sharp cheddar cheese. And I enjoy this lunch every day. Beyond that, I have a favorite plate I like to use, and even a favorite knife for slicing my apple and cheese.

I've also started to have granola and yogurt every morning. And...sometimes it's also lunch on Saturdays. I just love it.

I don’t think these things mean anything...I just have my quirks, right? Like how your friends had a regular table at the school lunchroom.

I love it when other people have traditions, too. Some friends go to Chipotle every Sunday for dinner. One friend always bought a Mountain Dew slushi every Sunday after he played Frisbee.

What is it about these little traditions that makes me happy?