conquering the places we live

A friend of mine spent her first year out of college living in Queens, doing social work with the Good Shepherd Volunteer program. She didn't love New York the way some people do; of course there were things she liked about it, but she always kind of knew that she would ultimately end up back in the Midwest and live most of her life there.

So she finished her first year and I was hoping so hard that she would stay a little longer on the East Coast. Give the city a second chance.

And she did. She moved to Brooklyn and enjoyed doing the hipster thing for awhile. I went up once to visit her in the second year and we had a really nice time. Sitting in a cafe called the Milk Bar, we talked about what makes people come to New York, and what makes them stay.

She said she stayed because she felt like New York had given her a hard time in the first year, and that she couldn't leave until she had "conquered New York." I laughed and said good luck.

I didn't make it up to see her again for the next few months, and then suddenly after some time had passed I got a postcard from San Francisco saying, "I got mugged in Oakland, but I still think I really want to move here."

A little while later I heard through the grapevine that she had left New York for good, and soon after that I got a postcard from Montana that said, "I realized I never told you I was leaving New York. I'm going to try my luck on the West Coast. I'm moving to San Francisco."

We haven't talked about it, but I have a strange feeling about the whole thing. I don't get the impression that she "conquered" New York, at least not in the way she meant it when she first said it to me; but I also don't get the impression that she gave up, and let the city win. My feeling is that it was some unusual version of stalemate. I picture the two of them standing nose to nose, like in an old Western, shaking hands. My friend saying squarely, "I win, New York. I'm not going to find what I was looking for here." And New York replying, "It's been an honor, a good fight. I'm gonna let you go easy."

* * * * * * *

My current roommate wasn't wild about the house we're living in; it was too old, and too "city" (she's a rolling hills kind of girl), and too close to the bad part of town.

At the time we signed the lease, she was dating a Delaware boy. When he found out we were choosing a house in Little Italy, he said, "Oh, my dad's best friend used to live in Little Italy. I pretty much grew up there. What street is it on?" And when he found out the street, "That's the street! What block? What number?"

Turns out, it was the same house. The first time he came over he said, "I know this knocker." It's a classic door knocker, with a classic Italian last name engraved on it. "This is the house. I helped my dad remodel the downstairs bathroom. He planted that fig tree!" He ran outside, plucked a fig off the tree and bit into it. "There's a picture of me on the fridge at home standing in this kitchen!"

So she felt better about the house, and I felt less guilty about muscling her into it. We went out in the area, walked to restaurants and bars, drove to the ones that were a little farther away but still close, because we are in the city. She was OK with the house because he was OK with the house, and she was OK with him (to put it one way).

But then, a few months later, it ended, and we still had the lease. And now the house has ghosts in it. The kitchen, along with the ghosts of past dinners and desserts and especially casseroles, is home to a ghost like an old photograph of a little Italian boy standing in the corner, smiling.

* * * * * * *

I am stubborn. I have always been stubborn. Before I'd even started school I was tethering myself to chairs I didn't want to get out of, a tactic borrowed from a girl I saw in a movie once. I have sort of learned to pick my battles by this point in my life, but still I don't give up on things easily, and I have been known on more than one occasion to hold on a little too long and a little too hard to something it would be better to give up on.

I've been thinking a lot about this "conquering" thing lately, because I've hit another wave of underdoggery, of feeling bested by my circumstances. I have developed a bad habit of remembering things I haven't seen in awhile, and automatically assuming that they were among my worthless stolen goods. And by "worthless," as I'm sure you can guess, I actually mean invaluable. I am perpetually suspicious. My heart beats faster when I miss a phone call, because I am sure that the only reason for a phone call is an urgent report of bad news. I don't trust my city or my neighborhood anymore, and that makes me angry and sad. Actually, there's a lot I don't trust anymore.

Lately I've been itching for a change. I'm taking stock of "for rent" signs in different neighborhoods, decorating the walls, and last weekend I finally cut my hair... But I'm not quite there yet. I can't bring myself to cut and run when my stock drops, as it were; I have to stick around until I'm leaving with a fair trade, where I come out richer than I went in, in at least one way. And oddly, not at the expense of my "opponent." I feel no inclination to cheat. I am a stubborn believer in win-win situations, and if I find myself in a lose-lose situation or a situation with a clear winner and loser I'm convinced that the players just didn't try hard enough. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can even make a win-win out of a game with an opponent who doesn't care to try for it.

So you can see how I put myself in these impossible positions. It's just how I do things.

* * * * * * *

You've heard this story before. I have a friend who went to my high school in Upstate New York, who got offered a gateway dream job out in Seattle. He messaged me to ask for advice on starting something new and completely unfamiliar, all by himself.

I must have given him good advice, or maybe he's just incredibly smart/tough/has a really high risk tolerance, because he now ranks among the most fun, the most successful, most interesting. He is eternally positive, always doing and seeing something new and wonderful. He has thrown himself into everything that has come to face him, and it puffs up my chest just knowing that I know this guy.

I don't think we have to be CEOs, owners of beautiful houses, in the best shape of our lives, season ticket holders, and invited to all the best parties to be successful conquistadors. All I want is not to get stuck. I need to keep moving forward. I may not have much in the way of liquid assets, but when I look inside at what I have at the end of every day I want to feel like a richer, more interesting, better equipped human being, with something left over to pass on.

* * * * * * *
Like second set of baby steps on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/theBabyStepsSaga! New posts show up there first, plus other articles about post-grad life, plus teasers and other important information. Thanks for reading! Tune in on Sunday night for this week's All Good Things list, and next Wednesday for a guest post about being a "new adult."

elements

I am feeling pretty all-American this week. Friday afternoon I went to a baseball game, courtesy of work. I spent yesterday at the beach with the fam, and today is Father's Day. We're not planning on grilling, and we're not beer-drinkers, but we ARE ice cream people. So to Woodside Creamery it is.

Yesterday I also got stung by a bee (my worst fear) on the inside of my right wrist (most tender spot ever). It's not as stiff or swollen or red as it was yesterday, but now it itches like the dickens.

The cool part about this is how resilient our bodies are. Bee-stings irritate our skin, and even inside our skin, because they have poison in them. They are strategically designed to protect the hive, kamikaze-style, by doing damage to intruders who are often much larger than the bees themselves. I am fortunately not allergic to stings, but that tiny stinger embedded in my wrist laid out my dominant arm for an entire day. The inside of my wrist hurt. I imagined the bones and muscles screaming against the venom, and felt my body rushing to the aid of the injured limb.

But today, I woke up to find the sting pinched up zit-style. Overnight, while I slept, my body collected the venom and pushed it toward the injury site. "Thanks for coming, see you never!" my immune system calls out after it. And I've been awed once again, as I am continually since the extraction of my wisdom teeth: Every morning I wake up and feel more normal, feel my body rushing to get the evidence of trauma cleared up and back to business. I'm sure I've shared this before, but my grandfather the doctor once comforted me by saying, "Our bodies are pretty amazing. They can mostly take care of themselves... It's just sometimes they need a little help."

That being said, I've been looking forward to going to the beach all week. I always feel cleaner after a run-in with salt water. I always feel fresher and haler and tougher. Maybe because my mom always said salt water (and kisses) have healing powers. I wholeheartedly believe that, and will testify in an exhilarated heartbeat to the truth in that statement. And in spite of bee stings and bird poop (yes, I got hit with that shit yesterday too) and humblingly huge waves, I do feel healed and re-energized.

Speaking of humblingly huge waves, and of being re-energized, and Father's Day, my dad always says the beach is where he feels most alive. He pines for it 12 months out of the year. He makes career decisions based on proximity to the ocean. This year, he even suggested we take a family trip down to Rehoboth in Februrary. His eyes light up any time he has the chance to tell stories about a half-century's worth of trips to beaches around the world. Even though a lot of them are sobering testament to the dark side of water and its overwhelming power.

Yesterday he brought up a conversation he'd had with someone about the duality of every element, the constructive and destructive powers held by water and fire specifically, but by all the elements. "It says something about us, which element we identify with," he said. "I definitely identify with water." We both turned silently to watch the uncharacteristically huge waves crashing on top of each other and across each other and in quick succession, and the dwindling number of beachgoers who dared to face them or ride them in. My brother joined us a moment later, having fought his way back to the foaming shallows, warning that the undertow was getting stronger.

While I let the salt water soothe my sting and buff my tiredness away with every crashing wave, the lifeguards had a busy day dragging bold swimmers back to shore against the stubborn sucking tide. Fewer and fewer bodysurfers dared catch these waves as the afternoon wore on and I, a strong swimmer with strokes built in ocean waves, feared the currents I knew I couldn't fight. I went out once but stayed in knee-depth water after I had to tumble into shore on a big wave since I couldn't face the drag otherwise. This roiling sea, like the floods of Hurricane Irene back in August, perfectly pared the element's soothing qualities against its disturbing ones. We regard both sides of that divide with awe: It cleans and it drowns. Same with the other classical elements: we have campfires and forest fires; windchimes and tornadoes; gardens and earthquakes.

There is also duality in deadlines. The limitations they impose help us to get things done, keep us moving forward; but they also cause stress and, sometimes, bring good things to an end.

I created this blog in May of 2011 and promised to update it a few times a week for the first year after college graduation. That year is over. So do I stop writing in the name of discipline?

In the past year, I have wrestled publicly with moving, at least twice; looking for jobs, twice; starting new jobs; dating; getting over; missing people and places; traveling; making new friends, and taking old friendships into a new context; being robbed; car trouble; money trouble; medical trouble; church; and perhaps a thousand other things. I have written about these things in part to process them, to figure out life as I now live it, to separate the things I know how to deal with from the things I don't even know how to begin to deal with.

But more importantly, I have written a post-grad blog to maintain connections with those scattered souls who are doing the same things as I am doing, or variations of the same things, at least. I hope to put words to our common struggles and victories, to remind my peers and myself that we are not alone. I have continued to post these past few weeks because little has changed: our post-grad experience has not ended. We continue to face unfamiliar situations, and we continue to take in new things we need to figure out. We continue to be hit with the duality of elements, we continue to rejoice and to mourn, and life goes on.

I could pose the same question about life as I did about reading a couple of posts ago: is it better as an individual or a shared experience? But it would be futile. Life is a shared experience.

A lot of us are facing a second round of changes, as service corps placements wrap up, leases run out, grad school approaches, knots get tied (this summer brings a hearty round of weddings for Class of 2011 grads). Is this our third set of baby steps? Maybe we are starting to walk more confidently, to take longer strides. But in my opinion it's still nice to fall into step with someone else. And as long as it is mutually helpful and joyful for me to share my footfalls, I don't see how I can quit. Writing is my sanity.

Over the next few weeks I'm hoping to make some changes to the blog, the way it looks, the features and labels and organization... I'm thinking about making a Facebook page. I might try to write shorter/more on-the-fly posts, and I'm trying to figure out blogger for mobile, which so far proves pretty un-user-friendly. I want to stay true to the core spirit of the blog, but to grow it up a little to match the steps we've taken since graduation. Some things will definitely change. But don't worry -- I'll keep you posted.

where did you come from, where did you go

I spent today at the Fair Hill Scottish Games watching dudes in tartan skirts play bagpipes and throw logs (theoretically) in flying arcs through the air.  More accurately, kilts and caber tossing.  And as kilts and caber tossing are outdoor activities, and it was a nearly perfect day outside, I spent today in the sun and my brain is fried.  I make bullet points about different blog topics throughout my week, and maybe I should transition my post-grad blog to a "daily thoughts on" format after the 1-year mark.  But I do enjoy reflective essays.

It didn't occur to me until we were waiting in line to pay the exorbitant entrance fee that I have Scottish blood!  Last Christmas, in fact, Granma was emptying out an old Ross steamer trunk and found a tie made of our clan tartan, which she gave to my brother, much to my dismay.  Yes, I am aware that I am not a man and therefore have little use for a tie (since Avril Lavigne slipped out of fashion) but I have a lot of use for heritage, and for the stories often couched in artifacts.

According to the "find your name" booth at the fair, the first Rosses set foot on this side of the pond in 1651 and '52.  Assuming that my Ross ancestors were not unrecognized stowaways, carriers of my blood have been shaping their corners of U.S. History for 350 years.  And now some of us continue to dip our pens in that pot--for example, the pen that inscribed "Ross" in the "middle name" slot on my brother's birth certificate.  Cool.  The clan lives on!  Although sadly it does not appear to have an active faction in the tri-state area.

I've been thinking about heritage and origin a lot since coming back from the Midwest this week, feeling myself lock into place as part of that landscape, and feeling that landscape lock into place within me...  And then being rudely ripped from that landscape, with a pair of psychological bolt cutters, and feeling disoriented upon my return to the Philly airport and to my house and my job and my life in Wilmington.  Jason said I didn't "come back" to Wilmington until Wednesday--2 days after my physical arrival.  Not coincidentally, I think, 2 days is approximately the amount of time it takes to drive (fairly comfortably) from Minneapolis to Wilmington.

Thesis: Jet planes fuck up our biological/psychological clocks.  You know how our eyes take about 45 minutes to fully adjust to darkness?  And the "twilight" part of the day lasts about 45 minutes.  (At least that's what my freshman year senior counselor told me, and I am inclined to believe it.)  There's some beautiful ecological symmetry there.

As much as I would like to dwell on ecological symmetry forever, I'm straying from the crux of the current issue.  Which is, eternally, belonging; originating; coming and going.  Pinpointing the location of my heart at any given moment.

I will probably never find complete security in this realm, and maybe that's just an occupational hazard of being human.  At some point I may also stop realizing new aspects and explanations and solutions to my rootlessness.  But I can never deny value in realizing the same thing over and over and over again: Love is a decision, and homes spring up where you invest in them.

For a second there, back in Delaware and not even able to pretend I was happy about it, I toyed with the idea of cutting all ties and heading back to Sunny V, St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin.  To the physical embodiment of my ideal life.  The place I felt most happy, most at home.

But life is not ideal.  In fact, as we have found, the most beautiful moments are bittersweet.  The most beautiful moments are the ones that mix tears and laughter, the ones that finish chords of sadness, anger, disillusionment, with a flourish of hope.

And I have to remind myself how long it takes to turn a new place, new people, into home.  And how much energy it takes on my part, how many moments of feeling certain I would, finally, once and for all, give up.  Funny enough, it is those moments that make new homes possible.  Those moments slap me in the face and tell me straight to get a grip and work out the situation at hand.

I almost give up a lot.

And those aren't moments of weakness.  They lay the foundation for the moments I look back on and say, "Thank God that happened."  They lay the foundation for moments of glory.

a not particularly cohesive, but perhaps somewhat enlightening, post.

I am continually amazed at the resilience of certain relationships in my odd and scattered life.  Some, too, surprise me.

You would not be surprised if I told you that, although I no longer live in the same room, suite, building, town or even state as most of my mainstays, I still manage to stay in fairly good touch with most of them via a mindblowing number of mediums.

But you might be surprised to hear that the bulk of my daily conversation, outside of the people I see on a regular basis, happens with classmates I graduated with but barely talked to while we were at school together.  A lot of this is witty banter, small talk, or sharing funny stories, but we hit on a really fulfilling amount of serious shit together.  Like relationships.  Vocation.  Philosophy.  Social issues.  Life goals, greatest fears, and daily struggles.  These are really important conversations, and I am continually amused at the fact that they are happening now, now that we are 1000 miles apart.

One thing I've been doing quite a bit is workshopping, which is cool because one of the top 3 things I'd like to really do with my life is coach writing.  Workshop.  So I've been working with a friend on a lot of different kinds of stuff, and working through a lot of hangups in the process.  Today we brushed the surface of a potentially heated discussion about an element of a piece he wrote.  We disagreed, but while I try not to do the passive-aggressive thing, I don't find outright disagreement the most constructive way to work through an issue  like that.  When I alluded to this philosophy, he responded, "I'm continually amazed at how openminded you are."

I laughed out loud.  Open-minded?  Me?!  I am one of the more impatient, stubborn people I know.  While I don't do a whole lot of broadcasting, I have some pretty rigid ideas about how the world works and what I think about it, and I don't feel very receptive to the idea of change most of the time.  I reacted pretty strongly against my friend's stance on the issue at hand, I just didn't come out that strongly to him with it because I wasn't prepared to make a case.

The amazing thing is, I'd call him at least a little stubborn too; but we can talk for hours and hours, coming at an issue from very different sides, and verrrry gradually I can see these sides shifting, a little farther into the grey area, looking a little more alike.  I think it's safe to say we both enjoy learning from each other.  And it's a fascinating, fulfilling example of how we (people) change each other's lives.

Because despite all our disagreements, I'd most likely catch a grenade for that guy without thinking too hard about it.

Not to mention some of the people I bear closest to my heart, who have some key things in common with me but by and large rub my sensitivities in completely the wrong direction.  Which, now that they are scattered and flung, is actually a little soothing.

Here is a returning theme: Resilience.

I am finding myself lately struggling not to approach situations too cerebrally, but to give myself a moment to step back and say, "What is my stance on this, really?"  And I check in with myself, try to just talk it out, and then chill out.

I am learning so many new things it's a wonder my brain hasn't reached capacity.  Isn't learning supposed to slow down as we start getting old?  I'm faced every single day with a situation in which my instinctual or original approach needs to shift to make room for other input or adjustments.  This is difficult.  But I am finding that ideas have incredible elasticity.

This is a bit of a rant -- my thoughts are disorganized lately, or too organized, perhaps.  There are things I'd love to talk about that I'd feel weird writing about here.  Like the awesome ob-gyn I saw today.  For example.

Anyway, speaking of resilience, the longest, slowest train in the world sometimes likes to cross my morning commute.  Not on a schedule at all, mind you.  But more than once I have spent longer waiting for it to pass, or waiting while it comes to a full stop in the railroad crossing, than it normally takes me to get to work in the morning.  I was wildly unamused, and even more unamused at how unamused I was about it.  Trying the entire time to just let myself roll with the punches.  Speaking also of the cerebral vs. holistic dilemma.

On another note, happy Groundhog Day!  Let's be honest, has there ever not been 6 more weeks of winter?  I'm as superstitious as the next guy, but let's be real.  It's February.  And it seems to me Groundhog Day is just an excuse for every weather-manipulating deity to get together and laugh at our folly.  It's like the Super Bowl of the gods.  Maybe global warming will change things next year, give those suckers a challenge.  Make winter hard for once.

Minnesota has a hard winter every year.

I want to tell you what I'm most excited about right now, regardless of how relevant it is to any of the aforementioned topics.  It is: red velvet cupcakes with lime green frosting.  I'm going to make them tomorrow and I could not be more pumped.  And the reason I want to make this particular kind is because I got stuck (after the train) behind a magenta landscaping truck with lime green accents.  And for some reason it made me want cupcakes in that color scheme.

Makes sense, right?

hallowed, hollowed, obliterated by a memory

Just checking in here, guys, before the week starts again.  Happy Halloween, by the way!  I actually kind of hate this holiday, although I say that very good-naturedly right now.  This might come as a surprise to you since I spent two years of Fridays in costume, and it actually took me by surprise on Saturday night as my gypsy alter ego wiped down menus behind the hostess booth.  I was feeling relatively peaceful, just a little anxious about the SNOW (wtf?!) when suddenly I was obliterated by a memory.

The memory comes from this weird crash-scene of a Halloween two years ago, when everyone was out of their minds in nearly every way possible, and in costume.  I doubt if anyone could give you a clear and sensical account of anything that happened that night, because I don't think anything that happened was either clear or sensical.  There was a lot of love- and pain-induced delirium, a lot of people went M.I.A., and a few boulders were set to rolling that eventually changed everything.  And Halloween on the Hill was the Great Catalyst.

I'll spare you the disconnected details, because the only reason this particular college weekend is relevant now is that it blindsided me at work and I remembered why Halloween is complicated, and I remembered that it often makes me cry.  (I also noted no emails from Dean K asking me to be sensitive of Northfield residents, mapped no honor house strategy, and made no arrangements for transportation to the Slegion.  Halloween is different, and so far pretty sleety/snowy, in the real world.  Don't say I didn't warn you.)

It's hard to believe that October is over.  Winter is coming.  I might be spared some cricket-killing through the colder months.  National Novel Writing Month starts in about 23 hours.  I'm apprehensive, and totally pumped, to take my first real stab at fiction in years.  I should also warn you that if you graduated college with me, you will soon receive an email message asking you to send me stories about your life since graduation.  Yes, I am St. Olaf's 2011 Class Correspondent, and I can't believe how excited I am about that.  I guess vocation is often, at least in my case, scribbled in the margins.  I think I actually like it that way.

November also means I'll be 22 in a few weeks.  I already know what the banks are getting me this year: my student loan grace period ends right on my birthday, the day after Thanksgiving, in fact, and a month before Christmas.  Good timing, right?  Just so you all know, I won't be able to afford Christmas presents this year, so don't expect anything from me, 'kay?  Semi-kidding.  There are a lot of big purchases and payments on the horizon, so on top of my to-do list is figuring out how to organize my assets to do what I need them to do.  (I'm drafting a post on financial planning in my head as I speak, so don't worry about that yet.  I've got the DL.  Or at least some of it.)

I function well with a plan to move forward.  I suspect I will always regard the Summer of '11 as this idyllic break from "The Grind," from my uninterrupted push forward, forward, from my inability to stop and lie down and watch the fan blades go around instead of the hands on the clock.  Looking back, even that unbelievably carefree summer involved a lot of working toward something.  Peace of mind, maybe.  Strength of character.  I guess I spent a lot of time pulling together my frayed edges, and trying to contain and explain and come to terms with all the memories that can and will obliterate me at some point(s) along the way.  I think I succeeded.  And a little lesson in chucking crab apples at a tin roof never did anybody wrong.

Not that I can't ever be obliterated by a memory again.  In fact, it helps to remember that I will be obliterated by a memory again.  Because that means I survived the last one, and held onto my heart.

awe(love)struck

The mail has been pretty sparse lately.  No big loss, really – the average piece of paper mail these days is just trying to sell us something.

But yesterday, I received a FedEx box far more weighty to me than to the USPS scale that determined its shipping cost.  It was from some dearly beloved, a second family, postmarked Amsterdam, NY, and it was FULL of DVDs and jewelry.

The women of the house thoroughly enjoyed divvying up the pretty things, but diamonds (not that I own any) don't shine a candle to a girl's best friend!  The exhilarating part of this package was the "love" in the signature, in the lavender tissue paper, and the individually ziploc-packaged pieces; the fact that, all across the country and across the world, people are thinking of my family and I through our struggles, and that they want to help.  I have received several packages since the robbery (just over a month ago, now) from good friends who stuffed the packages with replacement music, movies, and jewelry -- not just for me, but for my family.  Better yet, they wrote letters saying, "I'm thinking of you and your family and I'm amazed at how well you all seem to pull through."

Really, every single one of those authors and text-messagers and phone-callers and package-packers should take some credit for our resilience.  I am completely awestruck at how strong those bonds still are after hundreds of months, thousands of miles, and a few scattered battles, and the impact of just a word or a message on my state of mind.  I feel that love breathing in, on, and around my physical diaphragm, and beating somewhere in the general vicinity of my heart -- every single day.  It's incredible.

Now, not to take an egocentric turn here, but I'm also amazed at how many different things I can do, and how much I can really handle.  Actually, there is a segue: my Mainstays are as important to my capacity and stamina as food, water, and sleep.

Lately I've been enjoying setting up my living space -- what my mom calls my "tfol," a warehouse-style basement loft.  Its walls are made of unfinished drywall, partially-spackled and partially-painted cement blocks, floor-length purple curtains, and a staircase.  I'm using old milk crates as my (overflowing) bookshelves, and so far most of my stuff is still in cardboard boxes.  My clothes hang from a pipe suspended by chains from the ceiling beams, which are covered over with brown paper.  I've put up some posters and stuff on the walls now, mounting things in the ever-difficult drywall anchors, thumbtacking a few things up there, sticky-tacking other things.  I rewired an Indian lamp last night...  The list goes on and on.

Beyond the spectacle of filling up my motor oil at a high-traffic corner Exxon station in my work clothes, or the utter satisfaction of having mounted a corkboard on my wall or dripping with sweat and/or dust-coated from hard work...  Beyond the relatively fleeting rush of those things, what is exciting to me is the thought of presenting my finished work to my friends, inviting them into my interesting, comfortable tfol and offering them a beer or a cup of tea, a place to sit or to sleep, some nice music to listen to.

And even on the worst days, when there is no fleeting rush, a letter or a package or a phone call or text message is more refreshing and energizing than a nap, a snack, or a cool drink of water.

a few things that are greater than, or at least equal to, misery

The first step of the 12-step program should really be my Cause, because the whole "admit you have a problem" thing has turned my life around on more than one account.

(Historical examples from my life include:

 - Chapstick

 - Depression

 - "I'm [still] in love with you"

 - "I'm not in love with you anymore"

 - "I'm lonely"...)

Predictably, I'm feeling much better today, after a really delicious local craft beer, a decorating spree last night, two phone conversations with good friends in far-off lands, some good tunes, and a good rock-like sleep -- although I did dream that I was robbed at a beach bar during an impending hurricane, while wearing a mini-skirt...

The moment I really snapped out of it, though, was when I accidentally let a construction truck turn out of a gas station in front of me on my way to work this morning.  I almost sighed and rolled my eyes, but then the driver raised his coffee cup to me and I felt his smile blast straight through the tension in my solar plexus.  I laughed, relaxed my death grip on the steering wheel, and reminded myself to enjoy my beautiful drive -- and my string of unusually green lights -- to Hockessin.

I should stick a reminder on my steering wheel that altruism and patience on the road sloughs a ton of the stress off of driving.  I kick myself every day for not letting someone cross, not letting someone turn, being so anxious to get from point A to point B that I forget to be nice.  Reminds me of keys to happiness we came across in Tom's Med Anthro class 2 springs ago.

Also on the plus side, the sun has been shining in that crisp, Daylight-Savings-impending way it does come autumn -- kind of the way my knuckles start to dry out in the fall, so does the air.  Harvest-time sunshine doesn't drench you the same way summer sun does.  I spend my lunch breaks these days soaking up those rays as they slip out of reach into the southern hemisphere for a few months.  There are also delicious things about this season, like Pumpkin Spice coffee and pumpkin beer.  Mmm...  And on my way home today I saw three small kids get off the school bus to meet their moms at Hockessin Woods.  The biggest one was this tiny Asian boy who must have been the oldest, because he hurtled across the road to hug his bouncing younger sister, so excited to have her older siblings home from school.  Really warms the cockles of my bitter heart.

Let me (re)iterate my life philosophy: happy endings can exist.  The story of my life is based on true events, but it's up to me to write it.  I get to choose where I put the periods, where the story ends.  I can end it happily if I want to.  And when it stops being happy, the next sentence starts and will eventually come to resolution.

On failure leading sentences to a fruitful finish, I recommend this somewhat odd take on a tribute to Steve Jobs.  Despite my not-remotely-secret Apple boycott I am personally struck by his brilliance and resilience, and by the incredible impact of his death today on our incredibly broad and diverse society.

As if I need another reminder that I've still got plenty of sentences to write.  Thanks, Steve.

...And thanks to the driver of that construction truck on Highway 41 this morning, and his coffee cup.

reaction.

So my house got robbed today.  Fortunately no one was there at the time; I won't tell you what my thoughts first jumped to when I saw the police cars parked outside my house, after getting a text message from my dad saying, "Hey you ok?"  I can't even process how grateful I am for that.  Things could have been so much worse.

They took a bunch of electronics and jewelry, mostly things that would turn over quickly, so I'm less worried about identity theft or a stalker situation...  But still.  They say the hardest part of being a victim of theft is the lost sense of personal security.  I didn't even recognize that's what I was feeling until I pulled into the parking lot of the library here.

Yeah, so that's where I am, the library -- seeing as my laptop has been stolen.  My second thought, after running over horrible scenarios in my head, was, "Thank god my flash drive is still in the Midwest."  Which I have been cursing myself about for 3 weeks.  So at least I still have my writing.  But there are a lot of photos and music and other intellectual property, stored up over years and years, that is now gone.  Even if I got my (outdated and not-in-excellent-condition) electronics back, everything of value on them would be gone, most likely.  Not that it wasn't on the verge of crashing anyway.

But I am so thankful that my sisters and I were out of the house; even that my brother is in Boston and my parents were also both working.  Maria said to me, "It makes me happy that, even when really horrible things happen, I can still pick out the good parts about it, without even trying.  That makes me feel good about myself."  This while she was ranting and crying, but still, she's right.  There could hardly be a more stable family for someone to rob than us, because we know what's important and we will pull through.  I'm even partially glad I no longer have a computer so I can't spend all my time at home on it.  Also, I love the library.

It's funny, because everytime I meet someone new they say, "Oh, welcome to Delaware!  ...Just so you know, we don't usually have an earthquake, several tornados, a hurricane, and a manhunt every week -- that's not normal."  I didn't really think anything of it, although now it does seem like a disproportionate amount of misfortune all in the space of three weeks...  Also, a neighbor's dog recently ran away to die and they were looking for it.  A tree fell on another neighbor's house.  Bad things happen.  But we process them (once we get over the initial shock) and we somehow get on with our lives.

Besides, there are great amounts of fortune as well.  For example, the fact that I am not agonizing over the fact that I now have one pair of earrings left to my name -- because it is a pair of hearts carved out of shells that Mikey brought back from Costa Rica for me senior year of high school.  Also, that on the way home from work today I was marveling at how gorgeous the drive is along route 41 and 62.  I almost tried to go that way this morning, but I got on a one-way going the wrong way so I chickened out and went the way I know.  Which turned out to be faster, but definitely not as green and winding.  Also less pothole-y, however.

Oh, speaking of good fortune, I got a job!  After all my agonizing over that...  It's a really cool one, too, with a PR firm that does healthy lifestyle campaigns.  They hired me for my social research background with a creative twist.  Could it be more perfect?!  I'm the "Social Media Associate," and I never imagined six months ago that I would be doing something so hip.  I also really like everyone in the office, and there is a gorgeous backyard for me to take my lunch breaks in, at least until the sun fades a bit.  I'm really incredibly excited.

Now I could have taken this U-turn from either end (which it seems I've been doing all day -- I got lost so many times on the road today!) but I chose purposely to end it on a hopeful note.  First, because I am my father's daughter, and hope (along with resilience, grace, etc) are his great buzzwords.  Second, because why would I leave my readers, and myself, with doom and gloom?  Not when I have so much to be thankful for, when those things are going to carry me forward.  It really is amazing, the way things happen in some kind of order, and the power we hold, always, to respond.