Nature

I am no nature buff, far from it. I know little about plants. I seldom camp (though I wish this wasn’t true); I probably couldn’t start a fire without a lighter and some accelerant. But I do appreciate nature; I sometimes crave the outdoors.

I want to hear the rustle of decomposing leaves uncompromised by concrete. I long to feel the mud slide underfoot, ever so threatening. To be lost in the woods, not in the “what am I going to eat, who’s going to eat me” kind of way, just to lose yourself in the sounds of the birds chirping without visibly seeing a living thing. The muddy river flanked by bare and dying trees is void of all beauty but for its movement – water flowing not from a fountain, but seemingly from nowhere, moving trees and land as it passes. This sandy bank I’m sure was brought by man to protect it, but still it’s nice to see, to feel the grit in your fingertips. The red dirt nearer the water seems to bleed from the earth.

The only signs of life are the footprints of rodents and deer mingled with birds’ nests and the wind. The only verdure apparent is the moss and the budding saplings, excepting the evergreens. The sunlight through the leave-less trees shines like an angel appearing in an old forgotten movie. The river rushes, the branches sway, the squish beneath, unhampered by anything. I sometimes crave the smell of nothing but dirt; no pine scented air freshener or vanilla aroma candle can compare.

I went for a long walk in the woods yesterday..I may have gotten a little carried away. I felt refreshed, until I stopped to get my computer and cell phone repaired on the way home.

Also, I would never dream of taking up running, think how much you would miss.

Tired

Every once in a while I leave the house without looking at myself in the mirror. At some point I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in something shiny. Have you ever looked at yourself and not recognized the person staring at you, not one bit? The eyes, once bright green, are faded with blue-black rims and covered with weighty spider webs that pull the lids down. The redness, too, from the lips is now a shady blush. The once sun-kissed cheeks and freckles now appear moon-slapped. And everything is deeper, more pronounced than I remember. This can’t be my face.

But I look again. What seems to have happened is that Tired has finally moved in. He’s visited before, usually just a stopover, after late nights or trauma. But this time he seems to have brought all his bags and is planning a long, if not, permanent stay. Tired lay his bags in the tight storage area under my eyes and has turned off the lights to conserve energy. The luggage is heavy, pulling the skin there further away from where it belongs.

Maybe it’s just leftover makeup that didn’t come off when I washed my face. But scrubbing doesn’t help, and it’s been two days since I wore mascara – two showers and washing my face should have rid that. No, it seems the darkness is tattooed under my lashes. Concealer helps. Smiling, though, seems to accentuate the baggage.

Maybe it’s part of growing up, this reinvention of your facial structure. Maybe there’s a reason adults learn to appreciate the bitterness of coffee; children don’t quite understand it yet, don’t need to taste the things they know, need the caffeine to keep them awake.

I suppose coffee, along with moisturizer and sleep, is the answer, but it seems that I should just wear makeup more often. Or maybe not recognizing yourself is ok. Maybe rediscovery can actually be invigorating. Maybe it’s invigorating enough to chase away Tired, show him he’s not welcome here for the moment.

Holidays

Ever wonder why all the holidays seem to culminate at the end of the year? Whoever decided to place all major religious and national holidays could have easily placed them in June or August, couldn’t they? I think that someone, somewhere realized that we needed a holiday season, an entire season. I know that people complain about the added errands, the extra costs, and the lack of time this time of year. But really, what is so bad about shopping and baking and making people and places sparkle and glow when the rest of the year we deal with life without the shimmer and good cheer.

We’ve been good all year, or at least we try, we deserve a few dozen cookies by now. By the time October rolls around, the doldrums of daily life put us in a haze that make the days go by. We are in need of a peppermint coated sugar high to help us to finish the year. We need to hear happy-go-lucky Christmas beats to fa-la-la-la us through the cold nights. We need the sparkle in the evergreens to remind us of joy. We need excuses to see our loved ones as much as possible for us to realize the beauty of life, accompanied by an appropriate amount holiday flavored cocktails of course.

We all realize that life goes on, that we will still feel sad and angry, worried and dull, but the cinnamon and people all around help to curb the pain and loneliness and stress of life. And it couldn’t come at a better time. Because by the end of the year, it seems that you’ve had more than your share of bad days, weeks, months. You can’t help but to characterize this year by all the hard times and frustrations and can’t wait to toast it away. Even though all the happenings of the previous year don’t really flow away with champagne on December 31st, the hope of a new beginning is nice.

Renewal. The sense that we can start fresh by choosing to do so, resolving ourselves to be better people and willing good things to ourselves and others. I think that’s the point of this season, all sixty to ninety days of it – hope, with undertones of faith and joy. From giving thanks to looking forward, we do it with good wishes and peace in mind. We do it to endure; someone knew we needed hope to endure.

May the remainder of the season lead you to hope for good things in the new year. With love.

Southern Seasons Greetings

I like being from the South. I enjoy country music. I can appreciate the alternate English language. And there’s nothing that compares to Southern fried chicken with a kick. And a very intricate part of the South is being laid back, taking it slow. We talk slowly, we walk slowly, we aren’t in any rush. I like that too, most of the time.

Picture a very crowded mall at Christmas, place it in the South. If you haven’t experienced this first hand, you probably think that all crowded shopping malls are frustrating at the holidays. That all malls are filled with people who browse through the items you are wanting to buy, who stand in long lines and can’t find their coupons once they get to the cashier, who stand in the middle of the walkway with their ten relatives trying to decide if they want to go to this store or that or do they want to eat now, who follow that pedestrian to their parking spot even though you are behind them. Ok, sure, but add at least ten minutes to each of these things when you are in the South.

Because browsing is an art form. Because we add about seven extra syllables when we are apologizing to the cashier for holding her up, but we know that “coo-pawn” is in this big bag somewhere. Because, bless his heart, Uncle Bob is just starving, though that store is on the way out? Because, did I mention, we walk soo slowly. Not that I’m in a hurry, but my goodness, when everyone is moving so slowly it’s a bit overwhelming.

Patience has its limits. You have to pass by people. You learn to do so with finesse after twenty years of experience. You learn to park in the obscure parking lot or in the last row, only to avoid the slow moving cars.

The upside though, everybody is polite. If you bump into someone, you definitely hear “excuse me” or “oh, I’m sorry.” That is something that doesn’t happen everywhere. And if you take a few minutes to sit on a bench and watch, that family trying to decide what to do can actually be amusing, when it’s not you that’s navigating around them.

Merry Christmas y’all. Take time to enjoy the things and people you love, slowly.

Tempered

Tempered: a. having the elements mixed in satisfying proportions; b. qualified, lessened, or diluted by the mixture or influence of an additional ingredient – Merriam-Webster dictionary

In cooking tempering can ensure an airy, creamy dessert or a fabulously rich carbonara sauce, which without this technique would leave lumpy chewiness – not so fabulous. The technique is simple, really. You have two mixtures – an oil based sauce and egg yolks, for example – that you want to combine. If you poured the yolks into the hot oil, you’d get greasy scrambled eggs. But, if you work slowly, pouring a small amount of sauce into the yolks and mix them together, the eggs are prepared for the heat and won’t curdle when you add the mixture to the pan. Then gently heat to transform the mixture into a creamy pasta sauce. Chefs describe tempering as “sacrificing” a bit of one creation to guarantee that the end result is amazing. I call it a fantastic magic trick to deliciousness.

It takes a bit of patience, I suppose, and a little finesse, but it is definitely worth it. It might be easier to dump a raw ingredient into a hot pan, but that is a recipe for disaster, literally. But so often, we do that. Knowing full well that if we say those words at this moment, the only thing that will result is tears and screaming and hurt, we say them anyway. If we make this move right now, heartache will surely follow. Mix the elements in satisfying proportions.

On the other hand, sometimes it’s best to put raw ingredients into a smoking hot oiled pan – and mix quickly – stir-fry, for example. If you let the meat and vegetables steam slowly, you again get oily chewiness – not so satisfying. Sometimes it is best to just go for it, aim for the moon – what’s that they say about stars? Because if you let things linger, if you pause, if you temper your desires, you can miss out. Diluted, lessened, qualified.

There are a couple of differences here – 1) the stir-fry situation is smoking hot, the tempered situation is simply heated 2) the tempered situation is delicate, the stir-fry situation is hardy. It’s to do with passion, you see? Letting things get away from you can be ruinous, or flavorful. The secret is to know what you’re working with and to be aware of your heat source.

In the end, in either situation, just remember that chewy is not good. And if it gets to that point, let it go and start over.

Why Georgia

I can’t say that I ever had dreams about being in my twenties. I’m not sure what I thought it would be, where I thought I’d be. I’m pretty sure though, that it wasn’t here. Quarter-life crisis, thank you John Mayer for putting it into words, words that may be typically generational but nonetheless resonating.

The only thing that makes this life crisis so tragic is that we lack the funds for a Corvette and it’s not so impressive to start dating a 20-something. And so that “what do I do now” feeling seems to have no outlet.

We get by in jobs that we don’t want forever. We make do with what life has given us as of yet and sip the cocktails we make of the lemons we squeeze so tightly. We hold onto dreams of our childhoods, or remake them into something realistic. Or try to satisfy the dissonance between what we wanted and newly discovered desires.

And, if you’re me, you make plans. Because, even though NONE of your previous plans turned out how you thought they would, you can’t stop yet. You’re still too young to stop trying and hoping and dreaming. We still have three-quarters of our lives left – really?? What can that be like? How many times will we feel old in our lifetime? I suppose it’s all relative.

Despite that we feel overwhelmed by this moment, there is so much more to do. Experience. Love, stomach-aching laughter, stolen moments, pain, life altering people, twists, an unimaginable life. We aren’t really old. We’ve only just begun. In fact, in twenty years, we still won’t be old. We still won’t know what our lives will offer – that is apparent if only we look at our parents, who still are getting married, divorced, going to school, changing jobs, having their lives rocked by people and experiences in their lives . . . ok, maybe that’s not hopeful!

But, my point is, this crisis is like any other. Hold on tight, engage the fight-or-flight response, and push through however you can. Emerge. That is all you can hope for, I’m pretty sure. And prepare for the next crisis – they say bottled water is key, especially when hot flashes become a factor.

“It might be a quarter life crisis, or just a stirring in my soul. Either way I wonder sometimes, about the outcome of a still verdictless life.” – thanks John

Fear

Confession: When I was a child, I had a fear. I was not afraid of monsters or the dark; I was afraid of teachers – not teachers at school, no, that was expected. I was afraid that my teachers followed me home and hid in my closet or under my bed. I was afraid that they were watching me, watching to make sure that I was as well behaved at home as I was at school.

I suppose at some point I had overheard my teachers saying something like, “I bet she’s just as quiet and sweet at home.” Or my mom saying, “If only she and her brother got along so well.” I don’t remember hearing these things, but I’m sure that they were said and I was a pretty observant kid. So, probably, in my child’s mind, I assumed that my teacher’s were making sure that I was who I was at school. But this fear remained past the preschool or kindergarten years when I had eavesdropped on the adults. In fact well into the latter years of elementary school, I’d check my closet and underneath my bed before I went to bed . . . for teachers.

Most of our fears are completely unfounded – fear of sharks, of flying, of commitment – most are perpetuated by our imaginations and amplified or fabricated stories. We have all heard the facts – that more people die from bee stings than shark attacks, from car accidents than plane crashes, from commitment, well, hardly ever. And yet, this feeling, irrational, stressful, and at times, life altering, persists.

Is it because once every summer you hear some secondhand story about a swimmer who was bitten by a shark or because you just have to watch “Shark Week” on tv? Is it because that patch of turbulence induced images from that news clip last week, or maybe that was Final Destination? Is it because the last time you tried that commitment thing you got your heart broken or because you are just too independent and carefree to commit to someone? (The only ironic thing about this last one is, it seems to be conditioned based on actual experiences, and fiction tends to ease this fear rather than feed it – interesting.)

I figure a healthy respect for sharks and flight and relationships is appropriate. Maybe it is ok to avoid swimming with a school of sharks, to try to be the same person in all environments, or to check under your bed occasionally. But what would you be missing if you never got on an airplane again, never made yourself vulnerable again? Perhaps it’s easier to say, but somehow I suppose we have to realize that we exaggerate and that our teachers really don’t care that much that we are on our best behavior all the time.