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.

Transition

The cool mornings and perfectly warm afternoons are the ideal combination of summer and winter. We generally welcome this state of change, but at times there are complaints of the requirement of layers of clothing, the leaves that clog our gutters and car hoods, the busy-ness that so often occurs during this time of year. But typically, most people agree that it is pleasant for its weather and colors and excuses to drink cider and eat pumpkin-y things. The season of transition between the two more extreme seasons is cozy and amicable, and also known as autumn.

Fall, spring, engagement, pregnancy, pre-season football, vapor . . . all states of change between a more well defined condition. Anything defined by waiting for the temperature to set in, a new life to begin, an all consuming event to ensue should have a word. Otherwise, when asked what you are doing these days, you end up stumbling over half lies and exaggerated truths that sound like trying to describe the aches and joys of pregnancy to a man. And if you are anything like me, having a singular word to describe your state of limbo without giving away too much information would eliminate pounds of anxiety.

Because the truth is, transitions are all very similar. They can be frustrating and unnerving and stressful when surrounded by the hot and cold of it. But the moments of in between are pleasant, blissful, perhaps even satisfying.

So, I suppose that change is ultimately positive – it brings a new season, a new status, something new – the state of transition, though, it needs a word. Then you can just tell people, “It’s fall.” And wait for the knowing response, “Ahh.”

Try, Try Again

“Why do you keep trying things you know you don’t like?” It’s a pretty good question, really. I was asked this question when I was attempting to convince a student to try public speaking again, again, for probably the fifteenth time. I was asking her to ask her peers to do something that she herself spent at least twenty hours a week doing, but she insisted that she hated public speaking. I illustrated my point with the anecdote that even though you refuse to eat spinach when you’re five, you try it again when you’re older and it’s really not so bad, it’s good for you, you might even like it. I apparently had used different examples each time we had this futile conversation – why do you keep trying things you know you don’t like?

Because when I was little the only thing I ever ate at restaurants was chicken fingers, ever. When my parents dragged me to a Mexican restaurant against my will, my mother, in that motherly way that moms get their kids to do things, told me to close my glaring eyes and open my pouting mouth. She told me that if I didn’t like what I tasted, I didn’t have to eat anything. Against all my stubborn will, I did like the creamy, flavorful, cheesy thing she fed me. When she told me it was refried beans, I decided I could try other things too.

But why as an adult, without anyone forcing or coercing you to, would you try spinach, slimy and black-green, again? Why would you go back to Paris even though you thought it was dirty and overrated the first time? Why would you will yourself to like sushi, despite all the times you concluded that it was chewy and unimpressive? Why? Mostly because you know it’s good for you.

Because if you can just overcome this, perhaps you will be stronger or wiser. Because not only can you say you did it, you can describe the experience of it. Because it opens the door to spanakopita, the best people watching in the world, and yet another dining choice to add to the list. The experience outweighs the sliminess, the praise, the texture – the fear, the preconceptions, the newness.

Without trying again, and again, and again, you may never learn to enjoy the subtle greenness of things, to love a place for all its beauty, to appreciate something for what it is. I’ve always said I would want to be the kind of person who would try anything once, but I’m not that kind of person. No, the truth is I am the kind of person who tries something until I get it.

And then, suddenly, you may find that you love it . . . but, if not, you can at least recognize its worth.

Pressure

I performed an experiment last night. I hung upside down off the side of my bed. This is something that, as a child, I was able to do for hours. Somewhere along the way I suppose I realized that the only thing this activity accomplished was the development of a headache. So, being a usually logical person, I have ceased doing this. Why I thought of doing it last night? I just wanted to remember what the sensation was like.

In the first seconds that your head is upside down, it seems that all the blood in your body has culminated in your eye sockets. It’s harder to breathe, but this may have occurred with the advent of breasts, which would have been absent 15 years ago when I did this on a regular basis. Or it could be that blood is pooled around your sinuses, inducing instant cold-like symptoms. But after those first few seconds, it’s not so bad really. In fact, unless you move, the only real sensation that persists is a subtle heat in your cheeks. Not so bad, but not especially thrilling either. When I sat up though, which I did in one swift motion, like I remember doing as a child, it was as if I had been cured magically from this pressure I had become accustomed to.

Take from this what you like. I think that we are more adaptable than we think, but still it's nice to have some relief from time to time. Anyone have any magical cures for life up their sleeves? Friends? A good drink? Chocolate? Yes, I think so.

Figs

I had a plan this morning. I had a list of things to do, like I do every morning. And like every morning, like my life, I veered from the list. On the list were exercising, making dinner for tonight, and reviewing coping skills for work . . . but when I took the dogs out, my eye caught the fig tree at the side of our house. The figs are bursting with ripeness, some overripe, and need to be picked for danger of going to waste.

So I picked a few while the dogs were outside, and then realized that I would need a container to hold the fruit. After I filled the colander with all the figs I could reach, I ventured to find a ladder and a pot to hold more fruit. (I did this after attempting to climb the tree – fig trees are horrible climbing trees, fyi.) Underneath the tree, looking up through the wide fig leaves, I saw what seemed like hundreds of plum purple and magenta fruit hanging from the high branches. The sunlight shimmered through the leaves, almost blinding. I was determined to get them all.

Climbing up and down the ladder, pulling the branches near to me, and shaking the fruit from the tree, I felt more satisfaction than I had in quite some time. The earthy, sweet scent of the milky, sticky sap and dirt that covered my hands filled my body. It is the smell of late summer. The subtle itching and sweat on the back of my neck was invigorating. Flashbacks of picking muscadines and scuppernongs from the vines on my grandfather’s farm wash over me. The tender flesh of the fruit and the way it pulls from the tree with a gentle tug amazes me. The taste of the faint sweetness and pinkness is delicious. I’ve never liked figs until this day.

For a moment, I thought maybe I should be a farmer – it actually kind of makes sense, I love food, cooking food, why shouldn’t I like growing it? But I’m pretty sure that farming isn’t like this anymore, this small scale, manual labor of picking fruit by hand to feed local people . . . at least not here.

I digress. I digress from what? Oh, right, my list of things to do. My new thought is to talk to my cousin, who is on the city council, about starting a community garden. And as for this morning’s list – perhaps I did get a little exercise, and for dinner maybe a fig cake? And coping, well, I don’t know, it made me feel better. Maybe my list doesn’t matter so much. As a friend recently pointed out, life is too short to waste on things that make you miserable. So what if I’m not where I think I ought to be in life? I have enough figs to make two cakes, a fig and almond brie, and about ten jars of preserves.

By the way, did you know that the fig tree is a relative of the rubber tree? And that it actually contains latex? Explains why it’s so hard to climb, and the itching. More figs will be ripe in a couple of days.

Sticky

I’m a wanderer; I don't hesitate to admit that fact. In fact at this very moment I would love to be on a plane to who-knows-where to do something unbelievable. There are not many things that I wouldn’t want to try at least once or any place I wouldn’t venture to for a day, or more. I’ve had I don’t know how many jobs over the past few years and lived in twice as many cities. Some people call this adventurous, some call it flippant. I’m not sure what I consider it, but the main point is I don’t tend to stick to one particular thing or one particular place for very long.

With that being said, I started a new job this week. And with it, my multiple personality disorder began to flare up again – Overwhelmed has taken over most of the week, but Contented and Uncertainty have also taken strong roles throughout the course of deciphering my new position. And of course, Logic is constantly weighing the advantages and disadvantages of every part of this job and has concluded that it is ultimately a tossup; thus she has relinquished all decision making powers to Instinct who is utterly underdeveloped and therefore inept to operate on her own. Meanwhile, Logic has simultaneously been encouraging Action to focus on the tasks at hand rather than hop over to the Congo to see what’s going on over there.

Focus, that’s what I’m reminding myself to do. But it seems that my go-with-the-flow mentality gets the best of me, and my dreams of the wide world of possible lives makes me want so many things that require so much planning and more dreaming! Focus seems impossible. This is typically the point in which I make a list. What exactly is the priority, really?

The advantage of being pulled in six different directions is that it keeps me in one place for a second until one thought eventually conquers the others. At the moment, Logic, Future Plans, and Perseverance are succeeding to convince Instinct that this, here and now, is where I should be . . . or at least that it’s ok for this instant, which appeals to Contented. So it would seem that I am going to be sticking . . . for the moment – however, Action tends to be the strongest of all, so we’ll see what she decides.

Interview

I had a job interview on Friday. As I was getting ready to leave for the day, I couldn’t help but think that I was lying to my potential employer. It seemed sort of misleading to allow them to believe that I actually wear eye shadow every day, but I decided to wear the peep-toe kitten heels anyway. At least my blazer was a little bit too long. When I bought the jacket the idea was to get it altered to fit my short torso, but I never got around to actualizing this thought. Maybe this small detail let the interviewer know that, regarding style and my personal appearance, I do not completely have it all together nor do I give much heed to it.

But they say that first impressions are important, so perhaps they overlooked this faux pas; maybe it was overpowered by my sincere smile that showed my positive attitude, my resume that displayed my qualifications, and my words that revealed my competency . . . maybe. What qualities make a good first impression? What makes someone think that you are qualified for a job, that you will be a good friend, that you are “the one?” How often are we correct; how often do we misjudge? Isn’t being very organized sometimes a manifestation of obsession, doesn’t quietness sometimes appear to be snobbishness, can’t controlling mask itself with chivalry?

Yet often we make decisions and judgments based on brief encounters with people. Sometimes we are forced to. These decisions can be lasting – I refuse to listen to a Taylor Swift song based on a snotty comment she made at some award show, despite the fact that I enjoyed the “Tim McGraw” song that won her the award. Sometimes the choice you’ve made in fifteen minutes can change your life, or the other person’s, or yours together, forever . . . or at least until you make another choice to find another job or hang out with someone new or break things off. And even if we do overcome this initial notion, occasionally you will remember that you first thought that one of your closest friends was a bitch, albeit with a shared laugh.

So how do we make these choices?? I suppose we trust our instincts, or ignore them, and give someone a chance despite the blazer that is a bit too long for her . . . and, there will always be other chances to get it right.

Dreams

I started writing a book when I was in college, before I even began to think of a career in writing – which, at this point, is still just a thought. I was writing a fiction novel for fun, as a hobby. I had all these beautiful descriptions that I was trying to knit together into one story. I stopped writing it and destroyed all evidence of its existence. I stopped because it was bad. It was a horrible story; it was a horrible, hackneyed love story. Boy meets girl. Girl has problem. Love blossoms amidst it all. Tragedy occurs. Sad ending resulting in a moment of clarity follows. Cue music please.

There’s nothing wrong with love stories, I suppose, but the trouble was I was writing about things I had never experienced – things that I had hardly even dreamed about except through silver-screen colored glasses every once in a while. I was writing about romance and love and adventure and heartbreak – all things I had no understanding of in the slightest. Of course I had thought about these things, I had dreams of my own adventures, but I wasn’t writing my dreams, they were fabricated dreams that I was dictating. (It is of my very critic-esque opinion that this is how movies like Maid in Manhattan are created.)

No, fiction is no place for dreams. Dreams have their place, of course, but not in fiction. Dreams should be examined and realized. Dreams are life’s inspiration – to be pursued and conquered, even if they are absurdly wild and fabulously malleable. Fiction should be the result of experience enhanced. Change the names, certainly – to something poetic, or even symbolic. Have an ending that’s all wrapped up and clean, maybe. Perhaps combine a few moments to fit nicely into an outstanding climax. But they should all happen and be lived. I feel that I write best when I am living or hurting or healing the most. These are the experiences that should fill the books that I will one day write.

So perhaps it’s a little backward from standard thought, but to me dreams should be a quintessential part of reality, whereas reality should be the ever present insight into fiction. So, in the oh-so-philosophically brilliant words of Aerosmith, “Dream on, dream on. Dream until your dreams come true…” (I am so not ready to be a writer yet, clearly.)

And may I just point out that the most tell-able dreams are typically bizarre and unexpected.

Not So Dirty Dancing

As it turns out, an exercise routine is hard work – which I suppose is one reason it’s referred to as a workout. But it’s more than just the actual exercise that takes work; you have to get a routine that’s right for you . . . that’s the really tough part. And for us procrastinators, it’s a fabulous excuse to just not get into to that routine right away.

First, you have to decide what kind of cardio you want to do – running, swimming, aerobics. Then you have to decide if you want (or can afford) help – a gym, a class, a trainer, a friend that makes you go walk with them even if it’s cold or hot or you would rather have cookies. Then you have to decide what’s going to distract from the fact that you are actually running around in circles or jumping up and down like a fool – creating a good playlist (which can take days, by the way) or possibly that friend. And then, and this is the big hurdle, you have to be motivated to actually exercise – aahh!

Me, I think I’ve finally decided on a routine I might like . . . we’ll see. I decided that structured workouts would be best for me, but classes and trainers, well I’m not one to do things like high kicks in public. So I bought a DVD . . . a dance DVD. I had made a playlist, but the beauty of the dance DVD is that there’s music built-in. I plan on mixing that with walking the dog and some situps, pushups, and such. So I have a plan.

I did the full DVD for the first time today (I’m still working on that motivation bit). And I have to ask, why exactly did I choose to go with the cardio-dance thing?? I was starkly reminded for the entire hour of pas de bourrees, “New Yorkers,” and triples that I have absolutely NO rhythm, period. And for someone who has never taken a dance class and rarely frequents a dance floor for fun, the steps were confusing and the tempo was usually a bit quick – not that I ever kept tempo. The result was a combination of the Dirty Dancing montage where Baby just can’t get the steps right and an episode of the Wiggles. There is a reason I don’t dance in public, usually.

Occasionally the dance instructor will encourage you to improvise, to add “your own fun moves” or “have fun with your arms,” but man, I’m too focused on trying to figure out what exactly my feet are supposed to be doing and how in the world she can move her midsection like that. Perhaps my sister could get a hang of the body roll and add her own fun hip thing, but I just don’t get it. (And yes, apparently the body roll is an official dance move associated with the cha cha – maybe that’s common knowledge, but it was news to me.) My God, when they asked me to spin in the middle of two moves that I just managed, well, this is where the Wiggles moves came in handy.

But I guess the good news is that it got me moving for an hour straight – it certainly got my heart rate going. I suppose I chose the dancing because it’s a good distraction; it’s meant to be fun, which is what I want, but I’m also somewhat of a perfectionist and wanting to get the steps right takes away from the amusement part. I’ll get better at it – as soon as I learn to “clinch my buttocks as I bend my knees” and keep rhythm while hopping and tapping my toe some-which-way. Until then, I will be Baby when she and Johnny danced at the club and she tried poorly to ad-lib since she couldn’t do the lift, I will be that for an entire hour! (Man, I think I’ve seen that movie too many times.) It’s just too bad I don’t have Johnny to teach me the samba – now that would be motivation.

Alas, I suppose the motivation should be health or energy or attractiveness . . . here’s to health.

Choose-Your-Own-Adventure

Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books. You remember those, the ones where you are the main character and you have to choose whether to use the foot bridge or take the ferry into the dark tunnel to get over the raging river. But then, it turns out that the footbridge is two hundred years old, shaky and dilapidated, but the dark tunnel takes you through a miraculous cave with talking animals and hidden treasure – who would have guessed. You tried to make the responsible, most probable choice, but ended up flying through the air and climbing up the fallen bridge to save your life. Choose the tunnel next time . . . but then next time the safe option really was the safe option, of course. As it turns out, those children’s authors weren’t trying to mess with our heads, they were just trying to teach us important life lessons – number one, that life is COMPLETELY unpredictable.

Sometimes you’re confronted with a decision and choose what seems like the better choice, this then leads to another dilemma, and you choose all over again. You don’t really feel like you’re choosing your own adventure. You never get what you choose. See, the thing about these books is that sometimes the option that looks like the peaceful, fun, or smart choice ends up leading you into a messy, dangerous place – not what you chose. Things are so not what they appear, lesson number two.

There is always another decision to make. This could be the one that leads you to safety and your happy ending – choose wisely. But that alligator could actually be your friendly neighbor who really does want to help you to get through the swamp; after all, that cute little rabbit turned out to be a vicious, rabies infected creature. What should I do? Does it matter? Should I just make a decision and live with it? Lesson number three: take responsibility for your choices.

Ok, so the alligator was friendly, as expected. Now you have to decide whether the white horse is trustworthy, or a mirage – perhaps he’s just a normal mule, but hey, maybe that’s ok too. Or maybe you should just hike that mountain on your own two feet and not risk the equine’s questionable intentions. Besides, hikes are nice. And at this point you know that there’s going to be another dilemma at the top of the mountain that you are going to have to figure out on your own, yet again, and that could fast-track you to the castle. You’ll be able to see where it is from up there. There is always hope – lesson number four.

Finally you get to the castle, and the story ends there, as if there will be no further decisions or problems. Once when I was sick in bed all day as a kid, I reread a choose-your-own-adventure book until I had chosen every possible choice in every possible order. I finally knew exactly how to navigate that book so that every outcome was a positive one. I spent the entire day figuring it out. It made for a very boring story. Lesson number five: just live your life, adventure is not perfection.

Speed Walking

Every once in a while, when I’m exercising or in a hurry to get somewhere (both rare circumstances for me) an even rarer image for these situations appears on my face – a smile. I smile as I think of the method of speed walking, or more specifically the boy who taught me how to speed walk. Robby died when we were fifteen. I didn’t know him very well really, but he did give this to me, this smile worthy of tears. Robby and I had freshman P.E. together and we would race when we walked around the track and after beating me every time, he told me that I needed to make my stride longer and pump my arms more. Let’s forget the fact that I’m 5’3” and he was a basketball player. Of course the problem was my stride, not my short legs and non-athletic body. So when I walk fast I think of his sweet smile and deep laugh, the best hug I’ve ever received, his blond hair, and his kindness.

The taste of peppermint, raw peanuts, a Reese’s peanut butter cup, or pungent red wine always reminds me of my grandfather – of his goofy smile and willingness to let me turn his living room into a sparkling mess of garland every Christmas. I remember walking with him on his land to the creek, through the grapevines, back to my childhood. A pair of clear blue eyes and a knowing smile makes me think of my uncle. He had an understanding that I still and never will fully comprehend, a heart that was truly good, a meaning deeper than any other I will know. I remember family gatherings and saying goodbye. Though the sadness inherent in thinking of those who have died persists, with time they have turned into memories that leave life lessons and a lingering smile.

When I think of them, it reminds me, often, of the brevity of life, of the uncertainty of life. “Why” resonates in my mind. Why did they die? Why are we here? Why do we let moments pass us by? Why? But this answer is what I get – maybe, maybe we don’t have to save the world, or even a single life in order for our lives to have worth. Maybe if only one person thinks of us fondly, maybe that makes us good. I think those who I’ve lost and still think of are good. They were kind. Maybe that’s all that matters.

So maybe, instead of worrying about every step and every decision, maybe I should just be and make sure that the people I care about know that I care. It's a bit easier said than done...true. Must..not..worry. Ok, go.

Sunday Traditions

Some families get together for Sunday dinner. Some go to church. There is folklore of a time when families went for Sunday afternoon drives – back before economic and environmental crises nearly prohibited it.

Me, I’ve taken to Sunday evening strolls around my block. Yeah, maybe it’s because I am a 70-year-old woman trapped in a 24-year-old’s body…if only my cat were with me. But it was born of coincidental necessity to go out for one reason or another on a Sunday evening when I first moved here – to find a place that sold the Sunday paper, to find a grocery store, to buy some chocolate – but even when it was out of necessity, I still ended up meandering a bit longer than needed, despite the bitter cold. It’s nice on a Sunday evening to walk around in the city. It’s quiet, not that my neighborhood is ever bursting with energy (thank God, this 70-year-old 20-something wouldn’t stand for that), but there are fewer students, fewer lights, fewer open stores.

There’s something about the emptiness that attracts me to the nights on Sundays. It’s peaceful and discomforting and mysterious. You walk by the brownstone with lace curtains and notice for the first time that there are two stuffed pigs in one of the window sills and stop for just a second before shaking your head and continuing on your wander. You discover that you live a block from a retirement home, and frat row. You realize that the hospital across the street is actually pretty creepy - or at least that the gorgeous old building that was probably a wing for, I don’t know, TB patients that they don’t use anymore in light of the new modern facilities, is pretty creepy. You notice, that yeah, my street is cute (as pointed out by my dear friend, Lora, who google-street-view stalked me) with its rows of stoops and bay windows painted green and yellow and purple, all homes now occupied by students and young professionals (or maybe that’s just me). And the Chinese restaurant on the corner, whose only redeeming quality is that it only accepts cash, otherwise I’d be gaining weight by the day!

It is cute, and it has potential, but in the light of day, when I walk to and from work or on my way to wherever else I go, I don’t appreciate its qualities. On a Sunday night though, there’s nothing else to distract me from it. Most times, I just see its empty store fronts a couple of blocks up or the schools on either side of the road. But on Sundays, everything’s empty and the schools are just buildings – not work or students. So instead of staying in and being restless, which leads me to some “necessary” outing for the newspaper or chocolate, instead of pining for my animals or missing my friends and family on a Sunday evening, I walk a few blocks in the cold and take in my beautifully sparse neighborhood.

Dunkin' Donuts are quickly becoming a Sunday habit as well, one that should be swiftly broken!

Cynicism

A quick google search for “cynic” reveals the Hellenistic philosophy that “the purpose of life was to live a life of Virtue in agreement with Nature.” Check it out on dictionary.com and you find a myriad of definitions ranging from “misanthrope” to “habitually negative” to “scoffs at the pretensions of integrity.” Ever wonder how something gets such a bad reputation?

Any of you who really know me, know that I have been far too cynical for my age since I was like five. I mean, there are very few of you who knew me when I was five, but you get the point. I remember the odd Saturday when I was little when Mom and Dad would be wrestling with Rae and David in their bedroom and I would go into the living room and read a book, thinking, “Man, they’re so loud. I wish it was just quiet so I could read.” Maybe that’s not necessarily cynical, but it is odd for a little kid. I never had an imaginary friend - I couldn’t make up a whole person that I couldn’t see. I had a “My Sized Doll” who I named Jenny – she has a band-aid on her knee…I made up that she scraped her knee, really?

I even remember writing letters to God that I snuck outside for him to get, because I didn’t like talking to the ceiling and I needed to know that he was real – I guess I didn’t trust my feelings or what I was told. And taking a letter seemed like a good way to know…he did by the way. (So much for the faith of a child – Jesus had other children in mind when he thought of that one.) I did win a very real debate with a boy in 2nd grade about the existence of Santa Claus, though, because I knew Mom and Dad slept all Christmas night and couldn’t possibly have gotten all those presents out.

I’ve always had this disparity between letting myself dream and being shaken awake by an unhealthy dose of cynicism. As I continue in my amoeba-like growth, this desire to make a difference is balanced ever so delicately with the reality that life is hard and sometimes people suck. Sometimes, when the balance is off, I can spout unbelievable optimism or be propelled into frustrated immobility. But usually, what results is tongue-biting reality where I strive to do good – and of course, throw in a few quick sarcastic remarks accompanied by smirks and glares that betray my veil of good faith. Because like the original Cynics, I do believe that people inherently suck, but should strive to control that suckiness and keep other people accountable too – thus the public disapproval of usually accepted norms in the form of sarcasm and defiant stares.

I mean, in truth, if I were to choose a Hellenistic philosophy (as researched on Wikipedia) it would be the oh-so-moderate eclecticism – it just seems the most reasonable to combine several schools of thought, knowing how we are all so different and that I tend to suffer from an occasional multiple personality disorder. But I also think that a serving of cynicism is a part of any healthy philosophical diet – because it’s good to question people’s intentions and strive to live a life of virtue, unhampered by accepted but useless and pretentious values. Plus, every once in a while you’ll be pleasantly surprised – like not finding your letter to God outside when you wake up in the morning.

Skydiving

I went skydiving a few years ago. Sometimes I forget that I did that. I wouldn’t say that I am daring. I went skydiving because it was my friend’s birthday and it seemed like an opportunity to experience something new – I would say that I was one of those “experience people,” as I was once accused of being. I also wouldn’t say that skydiving was very “death defying.” I know, I know – “Why would someone jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” – but that’s a weak argument. You don’t just jump out. You prepare. And in our case, you jump tandem, with a professional…maybe it is death defying if you do it professionally.

I would think that most people who go skydiving at least partially do it for the experience. And it is an amazing experience. You wait around for a while in the building, talking with all the other people about what you expect and if you’re afraid, and then try not to talk about it after you’ve signed the caution-of-death waiver.

Then the instructor introduces himself and makes small talk. He’s done this a lot, got addicted his first time up, why are you doing this…not that you’re listening or care. He straps you up in a tangle of seatbelts. He shows you how to pull the golf-ball-like-pull-thingy to release the parachute – you should be listening now – he’ll tap you on the shoulder and then you reach back and pull this string to save our lives. “Oh, but I don’t really want to pull it.” “You have to try to pull it, it’s part of skydiving. I won’t take you up if you don’t.” “O..K..” “I’ll pull it if you miss or something.” Well, that’s good, you think to yourself with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. Cue smile.

Then you all climb onto the tiny plane and sit on these benches. More small talk and some people are excited. I’m not excited as much as I am intrigued, interested. Then the instructor scoots up behind you and says, “Lift up your butt,” and moves up real close, simultaneously uncomfortably and comfortingly close, to strap us together – you are about to go out of the airplane, by the way. “Ok, you don’t really jump, just lean forward. Go.”

And you’re falling through the air. And this guy you don’t know is talking to you – who knew you could talk when you’re moving that fast. And you don’t talk back because you’re here for the experience and you’re focused on the amazement that your stomach’s not in your throat and what a nice day it is. “If you’re going to throw up, there’s a procedure for that.” “Oh, no, I’m fine, just quiet.” I feel a tap on my shoulder, that’s my cue, I reach back but can’t feel anything, oh well he’ll do it.

And then you feel a tug and you’re sailing. You kind of soar this way and that. “See the rainbow.” “It’s a full circle, wow.” “That’s our shadow in the middle.” When we go through the cloud, it’s cold and misty. I smile. Wow. And then we slide into the ground. My pants are dirty.

Then you meet up with your friends. “How was it?” “Great.” “I feel weird, must be the adrenaline rush.” “Yeah, it was a rush.” “Wait, you got a rush? I didn’t…”

Yeah, I didn’t get a rush from skydiving. I guess that makes me weird. It was an amazing experience that I would recommend to anyone, but there was no rush, no excitement. So it’s not that surprising that nothing else seems to excite me either. That may explain my tendency to be constantly looking for new experiences – I want to break through my level-headedness and discover a passion, something that gives me a rush.

So, I’ll keep trying new things despite the results. Even if it is like zip lining and running into trees in a Guatemalan forest, not that that’s ever happened to any of my friends…At least I might find something that makes me want to do it over and over again. Like my skydiving instructor, who probably doesn’t get a rush anymore, but still risks his life everyday to do it because he’s addicted to it. To not be able to let something go, to feel that “I’ve just got to do it” feeling, would be worth all the other “Oops, there’s a tree there – this is not what I want to do” moments.

Southern "Pride"

When people find out I’m from the South, usually their first reaction is, “Really? You don’t have an accent.” Sometime after that, a few days or weeks, when they feel comfortable asking that question they’d been wondering, a lot of people ask, “What’s it like? Being from the South?” It’s as if I’m from a foreign country where intense natives cling to a dishonorable past by flying flags from a defeated despot or that I’ve been to some new planet where people speak slowly and open doors for each other. Ok, maybe it is a little like that.

But, when you’re asked, “Do you guys really like to fry everything? Do you really eat fried macaroni and cheese,” it’s hard to answer. I’ve tried fried mac n’ cheese, once, at Arby’s, in Albuquerque, and I thought it was a little weird. I do know several people who prefer their turkey fried on Thanksgiving Day, though. And I do like a good funnel cake and corn dog at a county fair.

When people comment on how nice Southern people are, I can only think of the art of backhanded compliments – one my mother has perfected. The way that woman can say, with a smile, “Oh, is your bad knee bothering you lately, is that why you haven’t been working out? Poor, dear,” and leave someone wondering if she was being caring or insulting is amazing, really.

But what is it like, being from the South? Being up north, having been out west and abroad, I can say it is different. I think that being from the South is a bit like being a woman. It’s generally acknowledged that there are differences between men and women; and the differences are sometimes viewed as strengths and sometimes weaknesses. Some people may still even hold that women are the “weaker” sex, but that is more often argued, rightfully, with a myriad of better debates – gender roles and biology and culture. Either way, as a woman, you generally have to prove yourself just a little bit more than men do – you have to be a little bit better and a little bit stronger. Whether you chose the Steel Magnolia or Erin Brockovich or GI Jane route, you have to find your strengths, what drives you, and go with it.

We talk slow, sure. But they teach public speakers to talk slower and louder – I think a lot of Southerners do loud pretty well too, albeit loud and hick is obnoxious and not so much effective. And we are polite and our mothers teach us manners. But etiquette can get you far in diplomacy, especially when you’ve mastered criticizing someone politely. We do say y’all – best word ever, by the way, it’s concise and makes sense.

Maybe some of us are a bit closed minded and backwards. More than some of us are pretty religious…some are both backward and religious, which is a scary combination, surely. But spirituality is typically a positive thing that has merit in community and psychology, when it’s not abrasive and harmful to others – when it’s real. Southernisms like, “Bless your heart” and “Dadgommit” are inexplicable to those who don’t know the language. Ok, so maybe there’s no good reason for these, but they are fun.

So what is it like to be from the South, from this cultural phenomenon where food is comfortingly fattening and people are unbelievably polite, even when they are offending you? When you realize there is more to life than your immediate surroundings, it gives you a unique perspective to add to a developing world view. It gives you strength to stand up for what you believe in, because you’ve had to do it your whole life – especially if you’ve always kind of had a different idea of life. It builds character, because you always had to be a bit stronger to say no to the fried food and bounce back from all the kind-of-insults.

So, like being a woman, being from the South is something I am very glad that I am.

Defining Moments

So, I'm in the process of growing. Growing in what direction, I don't know. I know I'm supposed to be growing upward, but sometimes I think I'm growing sideways or inwards, or even backwards at times. But throughout this process, there are these moments. Moments of clarity, of tearful blurriness, of utter confusion that are teaching me to stop worrying about what I'm "supposed" to be doing or being. See, I believe that everything happens for a reason. And I have this way of sticking in a moment until it makes some sort of sense or at least until another moment comes to push me out of that old one. And while I'm jammed in this moment, I like to try to verbalize it...I mean, usually not vocally. Some people use music or art or talking to move along and express themselves, but none of those things work for me, so I write - not poetry or novels or anything creative, just my thoughts, my moments.

My moments aren't profound or intense, mainly just descriptive. But I think it gives me perspective, sometimes catharsis, and always something. So as I find this perspective, I'm learning not to let things dictate who I am, I'm allowing myself to dream (sometimes), I'm becoming who I will be. Mainly, my moments are beginning to malleable-y define me and give me a new view of this world.