parallelism

A week ago I watched that old classic The Holiday with my fam, and throughout the movie Asha kept pointing out moments of parallelism: Most notably when Cameron Diaz ends up in a car with a sexy man, looking at him in the driver's seat, for the second time. The significance of this moment is the second man is different from the first man, and her relationship with him is portrayed far more positively than her relationship with the man from the first five minutes of the movie.

I got to thinking about this in a different context this week, when Jason brought me a copy of this month's In Wilmington. It features the annual Wilmington Fringe Festival, coming up I think in 2 weeks.

I first arrived in Wilmington about a year and three weeks ago, just to refresh your memory; so we're entering the second lap in a race of ambiguous meterage. Some of you may recall that I spent three weeks after my arrival frantically searching for a job, so as not to lose momentum and get stuck wallowing around aimlessly in my parents' house.

You know what that means: This week marks my one-year anniversary at what has turned out to be the firm of my dreams. Exciting! And mildly terrifying. Stability is a coveted but elusive state and I'm never sure if I trust it. Maybe it's best not to, completely -- but I'll save that heavy metaphysical discussion for another day. Or just try not to have it.

Sidenote: Other anniversaries this week include the 11th anniversary of the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center, and 150 years after the bloody Battle of Antietam (September 8th). On a more vague and less death-oriented note, it's 5 years since I started college and my second fall not going back to school. Talking about parallelism, my "twin" sister is getting settled at St. Olaf instead this week, in Kittelsby (which you Oles can pick apart for layers of parallelism -- I lived in Kildahl first year), and starting classes. Things seem to be falling into a strange but somehow comfortable rhythm.

Back to the mag. Soon after I started working last September, I went to a networking event at World Cafe Live at the Queen. It just so happened to be the evening of Wilmington's Fringe Festival kickoff celebrations, held downstairs at the Queen and at other local venues. This was the first indication I had that Wilmington had an arts scene -- something I understand, something I can latch onto and use to build my nest in a place.

This also just so happened to be the evening I met Carly, who was the first person my age I met in Delaware and who also happened to be an anthropology major. We walked up to check out one of the Fringe Festival art exhibits and got to talking, and I remembered what it was like to be on the same page with somebody. It was something I had been craving. Talk about raining down hope for this new life.

So you can imagine the odd cocktail of feelings springing up as I take the magazine from Jason's outstretched hands: Surreal. Sad. It's bittersweet, knowing I've survived a year and knowing that Carly is now studying anthropology at McGill and may never come back to Delaware. And yet how far I've come since last September.

Last September I was doing some major vocational discernment (although to be honest, that hasn't really quit even now; actually working, and working at something I like, is teaching me an infinite amount more about myself than I could have possibly postulated). Last September I was figuring out who I was, as a woman and a daughter and a sister, figuring out what I wanted out of life and what I was willing to give in that barter system. Last September I was relieved that I hadn't met any "nice young men" yet, and that I had no clue where to go to meet one of those mythical creatures. Last September I was testing out my security net and the resilience and strength of the threads binding me to the people I had worked so hard to love, that suddenly needed to stretch cross country and learn to tie new kinds of knots.

Last September I was scared. Of almost everything.

I can't honestly say that has changed a whole lot, but I'm just now getting to a point where I can look my fear in the eyes and say, "Suck it. You're coming with me." And grabbing it by the hand and dragging it out where I can meet people and get into situations that are enriching for everyone in them.

To illustrate how much has changed, I shook hands with at least 6 new people yesterday, and exchanged email addresses with two. I finally found a writers' group! (Somehow I never thought to look at Facebook...?) I forced myself to brave the pouring rain yesterday afternoon to go to Jackson Inn, an incredibly sketchy-looking bar that turned out to be really lovely inside, even with broken air conditioning! I tried a very local pale ale that I actually really liked, from Twin Lakes Brewing Co. in Greenville. And there was an open mic, and it was fantastic, and I thought, Finally! HERE are my people! HERE is where I belong!

In other news, the weather today is gorgeous, the sun is hot but the air is cool in a fall-is-coming kind of way. I walked to the library, planting my feet on the streets of my new neighborhood, and managed to snag a computer for more than 15 minutes (though my time is running low by now). I made major strides in setting the kitchen in order yesterday, and I get to drink my tea every morning staring out the kitchen window into the jungly back garden, with roses and lovely purple morning-bloomers and fruit trees and flowers, and that unique September yellow sunshine slanting through the whole thing.

I'm more settled in at the new place than I was on Tuesday, but it's still a work in progress. I wonder if it ever ceases to be that. I wonder if I will ever stop marveling at the cycles and stages that roll out through my life. I wonder if the Fringe Festival will ever stop reminding me of Carly and of Tim Otte and Sean and James Doyle, and I wonder who else it will remind me of next year.

15 minutes of moving

Greetings, readers. I'm going to try and make this quick, because I'm on a computer at the library and there is a 15 minute time limit at this station. The reason I'm at the library is because it's four blocks from my new house! And we don't have internet yet at our place.

13 minutes. It is weird moving into a new home. You'd think a holiday weekend would be the best time to make a major move like that, because we have 3 full days instead of just two to get three people's stuff from point A to point B, and get the whole place unpacked and functional. We did get mostly functional, and found some key dysfunctions (like the upstairs toilet, which refuses to drain). But there is still the issue of getting comfortable.

This involves things like, on a day like today where the humidity is higher than the temperature and the temperature is 85 degrees, installing air conditioners or at least fans in the important rooms. This involves things like mapping out our new routes to work, putting a few important edible items into the fridge, clearing a path through the boxes and stuff scattered at random across the major walkways.

More specifically, moving in consists of a series of strange rituals.

1. Making granola, which makes the house smell familiar and also secures a good 2-3 weeks' worth of comfort food.
2. Taking a shower and figuring out how the water works.
3. Also, not to get PG-13 here, but I always have to get naked in a new place before I feel really comfortable there. It's a vulnerability thing, I guess.
4. Be in the house when it's full. The first couple of days, the three of us (Kristy, Katy and me) were in and out, really busy, and never managed to cross paths in our new shared home. Weird. I was on edge until I got to say "hi" to one or both of them when I walked in, or when she walked in.
5. Eat pizza. Jason claims this is a universal moving-in ritual. It may or may not be, but there is definitely something to be said about eating pizza on the couches piled with misplaced items and tools and unpacked boxes. It's funny and cozy.

I have 2 minutes left so for the sake of starting this conversation, I'm going to publish now. I have a feeling this is a list that will keep on growing. There are still a million things to do.

growing out (parental advisory)

PARENTAL ADVISORY: Mutti & Papa, I'm just warning you, you guys will probably find this very sad. New empty nesters, parents of college freshmen, and parents of any adolescents, teenagers, college students, and young adults will probably join in the cryfest. Like I said, I'm just warning you!

I.

Outgrowing

Remember when we were little, about 7 or 8, for example, and it seemed like we needed new clothes every week, because the dresses we'd been wearing suddenly exposed most of our skinny little thighs instead of ending below the knee? Remember how you had to wrestle the dresses away from us to "wash" them, and take them straight to the curb because they were so threadbare they were almost transparent, and anyway like I said they were suddenly 10 sizes too small? And you had to take them straight to the curb because if you didn't we would pull them out of the rag drawer and put them back on and get more grass stains on the grass stains?

(Totally made-up situation, of course...)

At some point you realize there are bigger clothes in the world that would fit us better, whether we like it or not.

Remember later on, when we were 11 or 13 or 15, and we started pretending to be asleep when you came to tuck us in at night, and learned how to roll our eyes, and stopped returning your hugs, and constantly schemed up ways to get out of your house?

I hope you didn't take it personally. At some point we realize the world is bigger than the world we have so far experienced, and we want to try it on and see how it fits -- whether you like it or not.

II.

Growing Up

I remember the moment my parents' faces and voices changed as it suddenly dawned on them that they had to pass on the baton and trust that they'd taught me well enough how to hold onto it.

I remember when I first pieced together the fact that my parents didn't have any grand secrets for navigating the world. Until that revelation, I was waiting for the ritual during which the key to adulthood would be bestowed upon me, complete with a detailed guidebook and map.

SPOILER ALERT: That ritual never happens (not yet, anyway). Or, it's at least not held in a dark room full of candles on the eve of your 17th birthday. Nobody is wearing cloaks (probably). There is no master of ceremonies who splashes holy wisdom water in your eyes, hangs the key on its thread around your neck, and sets the guidebook solemnly into your outstretched hands.

That ritual is much more drawn-out, over the course of years and maybe even decades, through every misstep and stumble and trial and error. It's drawn out over every new job and internship and tax return, over every courtship and breakup, every friendship and mentorship and through all our courses and classes and travels. Every now and then we dig up and dust off a key that looks promising, and we're cruising for awhile on our newfound adulthood, until we come up against another locked door and it starts all over again.

I can't say for sure, because I am by no means at the end of this epic quest, but I'd put money on the fact that there will always be another locked door ahead of us. No one hands us the key and the guidebook to adulthood because nobody has it.

Just a guess.

For now I'm jangling my ring of keys and just hoping I have one that works.

III.

Outgoing

It's been quite an exciting, fast summer in our house. Last night we had nine people at dinner; the night before you could see a different combination of 9 people around the fire pit in our backyard, and a bunch more people inside.

This morning I walked into the kitchen and Papa was washing dishes in there (atypical to run into him at 7:30am). He asked me how I was and I mumbled something amounting to "fine," and I after a minute I asked, "How are you doing?"

"Oh... I'm sad."

Which was, of course, heartbreaking.

More heartbreaking was the fact that I didn't even have to ask why, because the reason he was up so early was because he had just gotten back from dropping off Maria and Mutti in Philly, where they got on a plane to St. Olaf (via Minneapolis). Mutti will be gone until Sunday, but Maria won't be back until at least Thanksgiving, most likely.

Adding heartbreak to heartbreak, Thomas is leaving tomorrow to spend next semester in Berlin, and adding heartbreak to double heartbreak, the day after that is my official move-in day to my own place downtown.

I know both of my parents are in agony at the thought of three of their children going off into the world.

I know this because even I am a little sad about it, and also because they've both mentioned it to me on multiple occasions, together and separately.

What is even more sad to me is that they are being so supportive and excited for each one of us, and for Asha and Yana going to high school and playing volleyball and doing all their stuff, when they probably still see us as newborn babies that still fit in the crook of one arm, a la Father of the Bride.

And who would DREAM of letting newborn babies go out into the big scary world?! Or 7-year-olds, 18-year-olds, 20-year-olds, and 22-year-olds, for that matter...

IV.

Growing Out

The original title of this post was some variation on "parting of ways." But of course I have come up with a way to spin even goodbyes into an upward twist.

It's not really spin, though. We're not outgrowing home or the family. The cool thing about family (and homes, the way we tend to conceptualize them) is that it grows with us. Unlike clothes; unlike childhood, for the most part. We're expanding our worldviews, but we're not ever going to lose the seeds that planted us in the world, and the world in us, in the first place.

As I am about to learn from the peaches and figs in the new "backyard," things that are planted require special tending and care. And, if properly cared for, they drop juicy, delicious fruit right into our baskets. And every season they drop fruit, and every season their roots reach out a little farther underground. The roots might crowd each other out (or crowd out the crepe myrtle) or they might fill up the garden box and start breaking through the soil and the walls that hold it in.

But instead of leaving destruction in their wake, they bring fruit outside the walls of the box, and they expand the box itself to include parts of the world that were previously excluded.

Everything we are doing is just part of the equation, another leg of our quest for the Giant Ring of Grown-Up Keys, each one of which opens another door and expands the world again. Everything that happens creates new reality, and the infinite new possibilities that come with it. Everything we do and everywhere we go and everyone we meet becomes a part of us, and we grow out and our family grows out and we are all the richer for it.


***
Speaking of people we meet becoming a part of us, and of heartbreak, we also found out yesterday afternoon about the devastating loss of a family friend. Please direct your thoughts and prayers, dear readers, to this family, that they may find love, comfort, and support now, and strength through pain in the days ahead.

wednesday night date night

You all know how much I love my routines. How they have formed so many important friendships (French toast with Mary every Wednesday morning since freshman year; wings/nachos/half-price burgers with the That’s-What-She-Saiders). How they keep me sane (my obsession with having a regular workout schedule). How they give me something to look forward to. All of these play a pretty huge role in my life as far as keeping me on the other side of the fence from dysfunctional.

One of my routines, though, has been getting me a decent amount of good-natured ridicule lately: Wednesday night date night.

My friends have mostly gotten used to the fact that I am never available on Wednesday nights. In fact, now that they are starting to date more, too, Wednesday night has pretty much become date night for everyone. Which is, of course, hilarious, given the months they’ve spent saying, “Every week?! Come on now,” and the months I’ve laughed back, “Gotta keep the fire alive, man.”

It’s a little upsetting that I have to schedule a regular date night into my week if I ever want to see my man. (Thus my plea for help de-nutsing my life.) But I got the inspiration from my parents, who are still together, and more than that, are still happy together after 25+ years of marriage. They’ve tried to schedule a weekly date night every week for twenty-five years. Wrap your mind around that, y'all. Especially in between kids, school, church, multiple jobs, moving, grad school, no jobs, moving… If they didn’t schedule time to “be in love” one night of every week, they wouldn’t have time for it. That’s the sad part, if you ask me. But it’s also indispensable. That's the way our lives are these days, in this culture. We don't have time to be in love, or even to get a grasp on what that means in the first place.

To get a slightly different angle on the topic, let’s take a jaunt back to my sophomore year of college, when I was a free agent and just figuring out what that meant. I met a guy named Tim at a pillow fight planned by one of the theater groups on campus, of which he was a part. He was interesting, and he thought I was interesting, and we ran into each other at the silverware station in the caf a few weeks later and I don’t remember quite what happened, but we made plans to hang out.

Regardless of how it all went down, we got together a few times just to talk. New friends-like. And then it was the end of the semester and we decided to go to late night breakfast together (St. Olaf’s best finals week tradition, in my opinion) and in our Facebook thread he said, “It’s a date.” And I freaked.

“I guess I should clarify,” he wrote back. “I’m defining ‘date’ as two adults spending time explicitly with each other in order to determine whether they are romantically compatible or if they’re better off just being friends.”

That definition changed my life.

Before Tim, the moment I agreed to go on a date was the moment I signed your freedom and singlehood away forever. Now? It’s time I set aside to spend with a specific person and to focus on our relationship. I do usually see Jason more than just on Wednesdays, but that’s the night we always know for sure we’re going to spend with just us. That consistency is super important. Especially since quality time is my top love language. You can tell I like you if I want to spend time with you. Pretty simple.

(Incidentally, it just occurred to me that my sister tells me she cares about me by sending me photo messages of things I said I wanted to buy, and telling me how much they cost in different stores or states. She also gives me hugs and says cute things, but I like figuring out the subtle ways we say that stuff to each other. That's love iRL.) (...in Real Life.)

On top of being a check-in point and a time to keep the fire burning, Wednesday night date night also forces us to come up with new and interesting things to do, to keep from getting complacent. This summer our Wednesday dates have got me to see The Italian Job and the Italian Festival, both of which I liked a lot; we’ve gone swimming; we’ve gone for sushi and beer and fro-yo; we’ve hit the mall and HIMYM; we saw Avengers, Rock of Ages, Wanderlust, and The Hunger Games; we went to the Delaware Shakespeare Festival to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream; he bought me my first ever Philly cheesesteak at Tony Luke's; and last night, we went to World Café Live at the Queen for their Grilled Cheese & Craft Beer Night. (The winning round, in my opinion was the Brooklyn Blast IPA and a swiss cheese with house-made duck pastrami on rye bread. A close second grilled cheese was the manchego with jerk chicken on caramelized plantain bread, and the second place beer was Victory Yakima Glory. Although now I'm second-guessing myself. Everything was SO, so good.)

Lots of delicious, hilarious, active, important, interesting things that we do together, sharing our old interests and stumbling upon new ones. I would like to be able to use any and all of those adjectives to describe my relationship overall, as well as the individual dates.

To top it all off, we were walking off the four to-die-for grilled cheeses and the peach cake and all the mind-blowing beers (I won’t tell you how many there were) up and down Market Street when a guy approaching us called out, “I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to see a cute couple walking out here.”

Keepin’ the fire alive, man.

weekender

OK, so you may have picked up on the fact that Delaware is growing on me. Despite my weird welcome (see August 24 to about September 24, 2011) to the state, there are actually quite a few reasons to like this place. Here's one: 

interactive version here

While Delaware itself doesn't have a whole lot going on as far as fun things to do, one of its major perks is its central location and general proximity to almost every world-famous city on the East Coast (New York, Philly, DC, Boston), not to mention big-name amusement parks like Hershey and Busch Gardens, and a lot of pretty critical American history. A year ago, Ann and I left left Sunny V around 11:00am, and six hours later we were still in Wisconsin. Now, I would have to very carefully plot out my route (in a general northwest direction) to stay in the same state for 6 hours. (That would be Pennsylvania, in case you were wondering.) In any other direction, I would almost definitely hit at least 2 non-Delaware states in 6 hours, if not more. When I went to Boston, my wheels touched five different states in six hours. Toto, we're not in Kansas/Nebraska/Wisconsin anymore!

Anyway, if you've been following the blog, you know the stories behind most of those little blue pins. Two of them, however, are new as of the last two weeks.

Last weekend Jason and I took some much-needed time off (what even is that?!) in Bethany Beach. Actually, this brings me to a misspeak. Delaware is famous for a few things: Delaware Park, the outlets at Rehoboth and tax-free shopping, Dogfish Head (still on my list, still untapped) (ha ha, untapped, get it?), and the beaches.

So we went to Bethany Beach, and it was FANtastic. We stayed at this adorable little boutique motel I found on TripAdvisor (a habit from my Casa Foch days). I think the guy in the office was a Midwesterner, but I never got a chance to ask him. Wherever he's from, he was very pleasant and welcomed us with cold bottles of water and some great recommendations -- notably, the Cottage Cafe, where we housed some delicious flounder and rockfish dishes with fresh asparagus, plus their special drink, a really beachy, pink, frozen concoction involving peach liqueur and champagne. AND, best of all, the most delicious Chocoholic Cheesecake of my LIFE. Not kidding. It was all I could think about for the whole rest of the weekend.

Well, I am exaggerating a bit there. There were a lot of wonderful things to think about for the rest of the weekend. Such as the beach itself.

We had breakfast at the Frog House, a really fun, lively diner right on the main drag. We had to wait awhile for service, but that was understandable given the hordes of gigantic families with 1-5 babies and children in tow. It's not like we were pressed for time! And if any of you ever vacation with me and I start dithering on about being pressed for time, PLEASE slap me square across the face!

We spent as much time as possible at the beach, in the water (which was full of what Jason called sand nits, like tiny sand-colored crabs that got into the lining of my bathing suit and tried to eat me as revenge for my recent seafood binge). The surf has been pretty wild this summer. Some of our group got rocked by waves at Rehoboth last month (and I still have a scar from the beesting on my wrist, if you wanted to know), and on Saturday at Bethany we couldn't even walk against the current, it was so strong. It was a little scary.

Anyway, because of rainstorms and Captain Jack's Pirate Golf we couldn't spend the whole day at the beach. Mini golf is a pretty important vacation activity, especially pirate "putt putt," as Jason calls it. (I put it next to "pirate" to make it sound even more ridiculous.) (Also I pretty much kicked his butt after the first 3 holes.) We escaped the rain by ducking off the boardwalk into Turtle Beach Cafe for local gelato, made by Gelato Gal, which also has a location near the outlets in Rehoboth. These are two things that are very exciting to me: local, and gelato. (NO, I am not a HIPSTER!) And let me tell you, the cherry gelato was some of the best I have EVER had. Way to go Delaware! And Gelato Gal!

(I'll tell you, we tried Maureen's the next day, which is on Garfield Parkway, and it was a disappointment in comparison. Sorry Maureen's, but I had just tasted the gelato love of my life a mere day prior.

Thrashers fanboy

But we had to try everything, right? Jason has a deep passion for Thrasher fries, apparently a Delaware beach classic. And yes, they are amazing.

Jason also had to check out Bishop's former Bethany Beach location, which is now called Java Llama even though the sign hasn't been changed yet. He almost got conscripted to work down there this summer before they decided to sell it, but let's just say I'm glad -- we're both glad -- he didn't.)

Outside Turtle Beach Cafe I saw a dollar bill stuck through the cracks of the boardwalk. I almost bent to pick it up, but Jason said, "Nope," and nodded at the stairs facing us a few yards away, where a couple of kids sat stifling giggles. Then I heard a giggle from beneath my feet, and the dollar bill disappeared.

Pranksters.

"Did you used to do that?" I asked Jason accusingly. He suddenly found something very interesting to look at in the sky. "...No..."

In the afternoon the rain really started coming down, and lightning + lifeguards cleared the beach, so we headed to the Blue Crab to wait out our parking meter with beers. It turns out the Blue Crab also has delicious fresh house-made chips, and pretty great calamari too. As you might expect, they do crabs, so our table was decked out in the telltale brown paper and roll of paper towels of a crab restaurant. But we weren't hungry yet.

For dinner that night we went to Armand's Pizzaria in Sea Colony, right around the corner from our hotel. (I got a kick out of the spelling painted on the side of the building; that's not a typo. Unfortunately it's also not the official name of the restaurant.) We got a deep dish pizza that we ate while packing up our room the next morning. It was really pretty good both times. Also, in the past I've found deep dish pizza to be a little too heavy, a little too much to handle... But this one was really good. I could still only eat two pieces.

We passed Griff's Bakery on our way to get ice cream for dessert, and Jason made me promise to get up early and go eat there. There was a help wanted sign in the window, and inside it was all dark and empty. Even the racks were completely bare.

And the next morning, once we had packed up our hotel room and checked out, we headed back to Griff's for breakfast pastries. We got the last two strawberry cream cheese puffs and they were some of the last options. Apparently this place just gets completely cleared out every day. And we still weren't early enough.

The guy who seemed like he was in charge apologized for the limited selection, but we told him we felt lucky to get anything at all! He was very friendly, and Griff's seems like a hotspot. I will say, though, if anyone wants to bake, think about baking for Griff's.

I returned to Wilmington with a swimsuit full of sand and a hankering to pet the kitty. Poor Stella had to hang out at home alone for the weekend.

While I was in Bethany Beach, I got a text message from my former podmate Anna Linn, asking if I was free the following weekend and would I like to go to her aunt and uncle's beach house in Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey.

Would I?! Despite the fact that it was my third weekend in a row traveling, and the last of a series of six weekends where I was home only one... I couldn't really say no! Plus I wanted to see her.

So that's how I ended up in the unlikely situation, dancing in a club on the Jersey Shore on Saturday night with one of the last people in the world I would expect to be doing that with: the infamous "Good Girl" of Pod 278 in Fall 2010.

We had such a good time, though; the Jersey Shore really knows how to do food and drinks. Not to mention the band came on to do a set and started with a cover of "Jersey boy" Bon Jovi. Let's just say the whole club was livin' on a prayer that night.

I won't go into so much detail since this is getting so long already, but in case you are ever in Point Pleasant Beach, I can't leave you high and dry! We had delicious meals at Wharfside, the Shrimp Box, and Tiki Bar. Wharfside has both patio and restaurant seating, and on Sunday afternoon they hosted a really fun "old stuff" cover band. They sang Journey. I'm good.

For dancing, check out Jenkinson's or the Tiki Bar.

More importantly, Anna Linn's family was so great. Her cousin Kate had a baby back in January, and Alex is now 7 months old and captivatingly adorable. Between them and their parents, the house had 3 dogs in it for the weekend, and I actually loved all of them! Making strides. It reminds me how much I actually like meeting new people. That's been oddly stressful this year, I guess because the stakes were so high, when I didn't know a single person in the state and had a long way to go to establish myself.

That being said, a year ago Wednesday was my first foot -- or tire, I suppose -- set in Delaware. I'm a few weeks away from my one-year anniversary of working my current job, which is so exciting. I'm days from signing on an apartment and being able to move in (knock on wood). I've covered a lot of miles, and I don't plan on stopping any time soon.

in thought, word, and deed

I got back from the beach on Monday and had a whole post planned out, but given the circumstances of the past few days, I need to write a different one.

I am thinking about people this week.

When I got back to my normal life, I found out that a Delaware friend would be out of town for a few days because her cat had to be put down and she needed to be at home.

Today, I received word that a friend of mine from college has been diagnosed with cancer. It sounds like he will probably make it, but the road will not be an easy one. And besides, we are 23. These things aren't supposed to happen to us.

A lot of things have been happening lately that aren't supposed to happen. Shootings, and mass shootings, and discrimination, and war, and robbery and assault and all manner of other things that hurt. These things hurt not only the immediate families or affected populations, but they affect the collective human psyche in potentially irreversible ways. These violences cause us to recoil, to curl up inside ourselves and put up our defenses and lick the wounds whose origins confuse us; why are WE bleeding and sore when it wasn't US who were shot? Why do we and our communities reel from the violences we commit against each other?

And then there are the hurts that are not committed against us by anything we can name -- like the cat, and the cancer, and other things we name in our hearts.

In these instances, we send out messages, beacons, to our mainstays and our loved ones. We ask for "thoughts and prayers." I always say I will pray in my own way, and regardless of any evidence of the healing power of prayer to one god or another, I think there is incredible power in Thought. I believe there is legitimate, nearly tangible power in thoughts flying in from all over the world, concentrating in exactly the place you need them most.

I went to Walgreens with a friend after Zumba tonight to look for a sympathy card. Most of them were awful. Lame at best. Most of them said to me, "I would feel bad if I didn't say anything to you right now, so here is my half-assed and partially thought-out clearing of the conscience." I know that I am unusual in that I HATE euphemisms, and I'm fairly comfortable with tears and suffering and depression and grief. The simplest thing that needs to be said is, at the core, "I care." I can't say anything more honest or more healing than that.

So I want to ask for your thoughts and prayers, dear readers, for these friends of mine, and for your friends who are undoubtedly also in need of thoughts and prayers, and for OUR friends. And for people at a few more degrees of separation. Thoughts and prayers do not run out like money or even words. Pain is one thing a lot of people share, and there is strength in sharing even pain. We can make ripples and waves in each other's lives, so, so simply. This I do believe.

routine recharging

It's 7:15 on a Friday morning and I am blogging. Already today I have:

• hula hooped for 20 minutes (which, according to the box, could have burned something like 600+ calories...?! Not that I count. I measure workouts by sweat and burn, and satisfaction)
• made coffee
• scooped out the cat's litter box
• fed said cat
• grabbed the mail which I forgot last night, and the remnants of balloons from Maria's grad party on Sunday
• closed all the windows according to my mom's "temperature + humidity" formula for keeping the house cool without wasting resources
• washed a few dishes
• put the fresh batch of granola I made last night into the giant plastic container we keep it in
• I also am eating some. I think it is the best batch yet.

The reason I have been up long enough to do all of these things goes back to my to-do list. I didn't know when I wrote it how big of an impact it would have on my life. I didn't expect to do so many of those things, or to do many other things by extension of it.

I'm up because, as I mentioned in my progress report, I started a pretty disciplined tradition of waking up early to go swimming every Monday morning. It has really been an energizing way to start the weeks. It feels so good, in fact, that I decided to start getting up early EVERY morning to work out. This week I've done swimming, running (still sore from this, it's been such a long time since I ran), yoga, hula-hooping. My main hangup on doing this is just that I haven't committed to anything by the time I wake up in the morning, so my alarm goes off and I think, "OK! I'm awake. What could I do this morning?" And then I lie there for 5-12 minutes debating with myself over different workouts I could do, or going back to sleep for another 45 minutes. So that is something that will change next week. I just have to plan.

I used to be a night person, or I used to call myself that, back in middle school/high school. I just could never fall asleep, so I would lie there ruminating in the dark for hours, and then wake up early for school and be cranky and tired. Except during swim season. When my days were full and I wore myself out. That, and the herbal tea of the destination, has become my cure for jet lag: touch down, sit down, have a cup of tea, go out and do stuff until a reasonable bedtime hour, and then pass out. Wake up the next day at a reasonable hour, and repeat.

This new routine has already changed my life in a few key ways. Exercising energizes me, so I start the day with a boost coffee can never give me. I'm much more focused and less restless all day. Even though I've been getting less sleep, I'm more productive and I have more stamina to keep it going until bedtime. It makes it harder to skip a workout. I have a whole evening to check other things off my to-do list. Until last week, I would get up and drag myself to work, come home, scramble to change into workout clothes, go to the gym, come back home and eat dinner, take a shower, and go to bed. And if I really needed to do something else in a week, or in a day, (which never happens, LOL) I had to skip working out. My stress level, thanks to this schedule, was sky-high.

My schedule still desperately needs pruning, but so far this week I have looked at a potential rental house, filled up my car with gas and my tires with air, gone out to dinner with my parents, written a long-awaited blog post, made granola, submitted a rental application, gone to Target (that shopping list has been in the making for a WHILE), packed for my trip to the beach this weekend, AND (drumroll) I finally wrote and mailed those letters that spurred me to write my to-do list in the first place! ...A month and a half ago. But I did it!

This is starting to sound a bit infomercial-y. I promise I'm not trying to guilt you all into making leaps and bounds in your lives. This blog is called second set of baby steps for a reason. We're walking blind here, and we have big shoes to fill, big dreams to fulfill. That's why any stride I make gets me excited.

One of the best parts about letters (though I could write at least one full post about what is great about them) is that the more you write them, the more you get them. I'm sure the correlation would be just about 1, if you plotted it out. And letters (or comments, emails, texts...) from you people are what make it possible to take baby steps, and what make it easier to take toddler steps and kid steps and angsty teen steps. And I'm sure they have the same effect going the other way, too. We've covered a lot of important ground in letters this year, and throughout my life. We've also covered a lot of ground in phone calls, which I have never ever ever made and picked up so frequently at any other point in my life. (I have a friend here in Wilmington who calls me to check in and chat about once a week, even though she lives literally 7 minutes away from me, even if I'm probably going to see her. It's weird how weird it is, but she'll leave me voicemails telling me just to call her back when I get a chance. No reason. No emergency. Just to talk. It's kind of cool. It's something I haven't done since I had curfews and since my parents could still tell me I wasn't allowed to go out.)

The great thing about letters, though, is you can go back and read them a billion times if you want, until they disintegrate. Whenever you have letters that you can touch, if there is something hand-addressed to you in the mailbox by a familiar pen (often the G2, in my case), you can never honestly bemoan your aloneness in the world. It just doesn't resolve.

Let me bring this back full circle. I usually have an idea for what I'm going to write about, and usually the post I imagined is not at all what I end up writing. Today I wanted to write about two things; one of them was my new routine -- again, partially to hold myself publicly accountable to keeping it up, and partially because I'm excited about it and it feels really good and I like to share good things that I am excited about. (Anyone who is my Facebook friend will know this all too well...)

Halfway through this post, I started to panic because a.) it always takes me way longer to write a post than I think it will when I start out, and I'm in danger of being late for work right now, and b.) I had NO idea how I was going to tie in the second thing I wanted to write about:

This is a picture of postcards I've been sent, most of them through the course of this year.
I pin them to the bare drywall in my basement and look at them every day and think,
"Man, am I lucky to have such cool friends who go to such cool places and send such cool postcards."
Man, am I lucky.

in relation to

So as you may have noticed I have hit another reluctant point on the writing cycle. This is mainly a direct result of the fact that I have hardly had time to breathe, let alone think, let alone sit down in front of the computer, in the past month or so. The cherry on top of this situation (perhaps not coincidentally) is that I also have about 1395756302 big things to think about in life at this moment. And no time, again, to think about them.

It all started with New Orleans. I mean, leading up to it I was totally swamped, I forget why, but I distinctly remember not packing until the evening before I left, because I just did not have time until then. I guess the weekend before that was the weekend Kristy and I went to the beach, and the weekend before that was Audrey's last weekend on the East Coast... So it makes sense. My week nights are all spoken for, consistently, filled with trips to the gym, to the gas station, to half-price nacho night on Main Street, to the couch to watch The Bachelorette (no longer! And happily ever after to Emily and one-F Jef!)

I was already starting to question the jam-packed-ness of my life before New Orleans. But then I experienced this amazing spiritual peace and fulfillment and inspiration on that trip, and returning home it was replaced by that ironic creeping anxiety of not being able to envision holding onto that peace upon returning to life as usual...

Service. That's something I didn't write about, that I wanted to write about after coming back from there. Service was a major element of the trip, with a full day set aside for service projects. Our service project? A historic walk to the New Orleans School of Cooking... to be served a traditional New Orleans meal.

Wait-- Our service project was to be served?

In the end, I felt we got far more out of the service day than most of the other groups, who spoke sometimes condescendingly about the "good work" they got to do "for the people of New Orleans." Maybe I just feel the need to justify how we spent that day, but to me it seemed they had completely missed the point. Service shouldn't be something we, as The Privileged, give to people who are "less well off" than we are; service should be a way of life, a social code, a way of conducting relationships. And it's not 100% selfless. How can we truly enjoy the food cooked for us if we eat it selflessly? How can we be sincerely, deeply grateful to the cooks if we have eaten too selflessly to enjoy, to taste what we are putting into our mouths? And how then can we hope to serve with any impact if we don't allow ourselves to know what being served feels like?

Honestly, I find it uncomfortable. And tapping into that discomfort, when I go to "pay it forward," is to me what makes service, on both the giving and receiving end, worth our while.

***

So this has been on my mind. Not that I had time to process it, seeing as I finished the week in a puddle, liquidized beneath the weight of too many things to do.

Kristy and Katy and I are looking at apartments, and hopefully moving into one by September 1st. We'll see what happens, as some really important things are thrown into cutting light. This brings into play finances; commitment; relationships; personality; taste; values. Some heavy shit.

More on that later. Right now I need to break down my weekend for you, so you can see how NUTS my life is. (Any tips on de-nutsing it, PLEASE let me know.)

This past weekend, I went to New York twice; slept in 2-3 hour chunks that did not total 8 hours in any 24-hour period; went to work on Saturday; and celebrated my sister's high school graduation. I know what you're thinking... There aren't enough hours in a weekend to fit all that stuff in.

Well, you're right. Fortunately I have the time turner.

Yeah, I don't really have that. But let's be real: What, out of those things, can I be expected to cut out? I went to New York on Friday with my family. And I had already committed to the work event, months earlier, not realizing it took place on a Saturday -- much less a particularly important Saturday for me to be out of town. It can be pretty critical to step up at work, to go above and beyond, especially for young professionals who are trying to establish themselves and show their commitment to a job and an organization. (The work-life line is a bit fuzzier, but I don't think I'm in any position right now to tackle that.)

But Saturday I went to New York to visit some old study abroad friends I haven't seen in seven years. It was a one-weekend deal. I pretty much had to go.

And it was so good to see them. It's strange. B's place, where we gathered, was a 5-story walk-up. Which I walked up, to discover B, Georgie the legendary Aussie in our group, and Gus, sitting on a terrace looking the same... But older.

We are adults now. We are doing adult things. Working. Going to med school. Buying houses. Looking for apartments. Traveling. Trying out things we could end up doing for the rest of our lives.

I laughed because all of Georgie's travel stories involved her either wingmanning some Swiss hostel-mate, or anti-wingmanning some Swiss hostel-mate. Gus is forging his way in a town void of denizens between the ages of 18 and 50, working in real estate, brewing beer at home, being responsible and eternally pleasant. Gus has always been nice to be around, at least that hasn't changed.

I was in awe of how closely B has stayed in touch with people in our class. She said, "I think I am better at long-distance relationships than in-person ones." And Georgie said, "I think I'm the opposite. I always say I'm like a bad cold. If I was friends with you, even just for a short amount of time, you're my friend for life. And I will most likely show up in your life 7 years down the line and say, what up!"

There are a lot of amazing people in my life, and I'm very, very lucky. I was so happy to touch base with these people, to connect. We are very different. I am very different. But there is something underneath that holds fast even after 7 years of falling out of orbit.

Speaking of amazing people in my life, I'm starting to dread the day, 3 or so weeks from now, when Thomas and Maria leave for Germany and St. Olaf, respectively. I think the family is starting to dread this day. Assuming my girls and me land an apartment, the house will be only half-full with my parents, Asha, and our Russian exchange student. Empty, in comparison to the usual household chaos.

Also amazing: my growing and morphing Delaware network. I just got back from our crew's biweekly half-price food Tuesday, and for the second or third week running we have a new person at the table! Scratch that -- tonight we had two! This is very exciting. And these people have been such a blessing and a windfall to me since November and counting.

It takes work, to maintain relationships after college, after we're not all housed within 10 minutes walking distance of each other anymore, or when my heart feels scattered across the nation. It takes work, and it takes patience, and there will be tears. But relationships, at least, are rarely not worth it.

the spirit moving

So, dear readers, here I am after yet another long absence. This one is maybe longest of all. I have been hiding my face out of shame.

But as we all know, that is the least constructive of emotions. Buck up and move on, I say.

Where have I been, you might ask? Or maybe you are not asking, because you have used your powers of deduction to figure out from my last post that I was in the Big Easy for a few days - New Orleans.

I have loved the city of New Orleans. Last time I was there it was spring break of my senior year of college. We did karaoke and drank hand grenades and hung out with dreadlocked musicians from Portland, Ore. We danced to swing and jazz and funk and jam bands in the cobbled streets of the French Quarter, and spent an entire afternoon on the trolley carting to the end of the city and back.

gator sausage.

This trip was a little different. As I [may have] mentioned 2 Wednesdays ago, this trip involved me being an "adult leader" (HA) for seven high school youth from my church.

I know you are laughing at this great joke right about now. Me, an adult leader? Me, actively involved in church?! ME not setting foot on Bourbon Street...

And still having the time of my life?!

This trip was really important, though. You might have noticed (my mom did) that I was starting to spiral into a rut of neurotic angst and perpetual anxiety. I was getting lonely and losing touch with the cornerstones of my life, my identity, my values. Not to the point of no return, not banishing them from my life, but but losing touch with what really matters.

By the way, thank you all again for reminding me of this, reminding me that while these things may have gotten covered up in the dust of routine and responsibility, they are not worthless or broken. Dusting things off is a relatively easy chore, and so rewarding as you can immediately see the difference in your life. So thanks for reaching out your social networks to reassure me. I sincerely hope it was mutual.

But the youth gathering reminded me of how to move in a group - not only in a group of 4 (the girls in my room) or a group of 10 (the Hope Lutheran, DE, contingent), but in a group of almost 34,000. This motion is unbelievable. Slow, at times, and obnoxious to resident drivers when our accordion effect fails to heed traffic signals. We got better by the end of the three days.

This motion, though, is unbelievable. We high-fived at least hundreds of people, and got as many "free hugs" as we could possibly need in one weekend. We smiled and waved at almost everyone, and we shared mardi gras beads in exchange for bottle cap necklaces and fake tattoos and cheese-shaped erasers with a tag reading, "Cheeses for Jesus" and the name of a church in Wisconsin.

And when we all got into the Superdome, well, even I couldn't deny the power of the Spirit. I will admit that the skeptic (or the tolerant) in me still wasn't ready to declare it THE Holy Spirit, as in The One and Only, but I decided it didn't really matter in that moment who or what the Spirit is or what it's called. What's important is that we were all there together, moving together and singing "Hallelujah" together and clapping together and lighting the Dome with our cell phones.

We also got to hear some amazing speakers. A few of my favorites:
"Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes."
A woman who opened her home to young people in a gang-ruled neighborhood
Takeaway: Question the way things have always been done
Finding your people!

And quotes from other talks:

It's not what's on the table that matters, it's who's at that table. - Kevin, New Orleans School of Cooking

 People say, New Orleans is different. And it's because we're not living for the dollar! - also Kevin

In the West, people have watches. In Africa, people have time. - African saying, shared by a girl named Megan whose family does mission work in Tanzania

And some memorable musical moments:
Tony Memmel, the one-armed guitarist
Sweet hip-hop band called Rhemasoul
The Gathering Theme Song: "Make A Difference"
...aaaand everybody's favorite, "Hallelujah"

Oh, and we also saw Switchfoot.*

*This is the part where I scream like a 12-year-old girl who just ran into Joel/Benji Madden. ...Do I date myself?

Every day was packed, and our group was fantastic and reflective and mind-blowing. We learned a lot and thought a lot, about service and sharing and grace (you know, good Lutheran things). I'm sure I will find ways to bring it up for weeks. But I need to get this out. I want to go to bed an hour ago, and I meant to write a letter tonight.

But first I must finish my list of excuses for not writing for two weeks. I guess everyone deserves a vacation, but these reasons are important to me, and they're important to the continuation of this blog.

On the way home, we (of course) ran into some flight issues and so spent literally the ENTIRE day in airports, from 7:30am until 1:30am. And aside from all the logistical issues, almost our entire group got sick. So I spent last week praying I wasn't going to come down with it, while really coming down with it the whole time and being fuzzy in the head and cranky at work. I made a new friend on Tuesday, and saw a fantastic production of A Midsummer Night's Dream on Wednesday, and went to Zumba on Thursday, and finally on Friday, just in time for the Olympics opening ceremony, I got pretty miserable. So I spent Saturday recovering. And suddenly another week has gone by and I'm finally caught up on sleep (as much as I will ever be) and I spend my Monday evening apartment hunting, which was really quite a good time, and I still have 10,000 things I want to do, and write about.

So rest assured, dear readers, that there is always more to come.

progress report

A few weeks ago I posted some version of my most current life to-do list. I will admit I have yet to do #1, the item which spurred the entire list to be written. But I'm in an airport right now, about to board a connecting flight to New Orleans, and air travel for me is good for 2 things: napping, and writing letters. (Actually journaling is probably a more common air travel activity for me, but it's the same genre.)

That being said, while returning to New Orleans after spring break last year was NOT on my most recent to-do list, it has been on my more long-term bucket list. So I am ticking things off as we speak. I'm very ambitious.

Since writing that list, I've had a couple of resumes and cover letters sent to me for review, and have consulted on countless career decisions. There goes #3.

I've also started a lovely habit of hitting the pool for 1000+ yards every Monday morning before work. Aside from starting the week off right, it's also become a really valuable sister activity with Asha, who is 16. #11, thank you VERY much!

I'm making a point of going outside, and even WALKING to lunch every day (#8 and #16).

And I did indeed go to the Wilmington Pirate Festival - #13. (See photo below.)

I've been to the beach TWICE this summer and have plans for a third and maybe fourth visit! I'm liking this Delaware beaches thing. They are really nice too...

I'm saving more, getting less worried about money, staying in closer touch with my bank account - although there's definitely still room for growth.

That's the beauty of it, though. I'm sharing my latest accomplishments (some of them, at least; you would be surprised if you knew how much I break down my progress to measure it for myself. Talk about hyper-monitored daily detailed post-it to-do lists...) BUT THE POINT IS, there's always room to grow.

Time to board. Expect a more thoughtful post upon my return from this trip. If you want to know what I'm doing in one of my top 5 cities his weekend, check it out at http://www.elca.org/Growing-In-Faith/Ministry/Youth-Ministry/Youth-Gathering.aspx/

:)

a study in the art of sleep (the remix)

It's been a hell of a week, emotionally, for me and by the power of association for certain people close to me. You all got a dose of that last week, readers, in my last post about feeling far away from my mainstays. This homesickness hits hard every so often and throws me WAY out of whack. Like, "breaking the chains of this life" out of whack. But it gives me an opportunity to fix things that are out of balance. I need reminders.

Thank you, by the way, for all of your "reminders" over the past week. It's good to hear from all of you.

There are other things, of course, that go into the soup. I share a lot of them: Money is a big one. I'm sure you are familiar with the usual contributors too, work stress and relationships and all that.

I just read a couple of posts about sleep by one of my favorite fellow bloggers, Andy of Flight Test Dummies. The first post details a highly coveted recipe "for it to all work out." The second is about being tired.

Talking of emotional chaos, tired is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

First, you should know that I picked up a lot of sleeping habits from the Greco Boys (of whom Andy is the oldest). Back in 2007, when I was still scared to death of Andy, I spent most of my time in their living room. Possibly I spent more time there than they did, and I almost definitely spent more waking hours in their living room than they did. Those couches are comfortable, but I used to have insomniac tendencies. It was a stressful summer because my parents had just left the country and I was feeling a bit orphaned and homeless. (My mom often referred to me as her "poor little huerfanita/orphan child." Still on the fence on whether that was helpful or not.) I was on my way to college, which is a big deal in itself, both exciting and terrifying. And I was facing the breakup of my best (and only successful) relationship in life to that point.

With all this stuff on my plate, I lost sleep. I stayed out as late as I could, snuck out of my girlfriends' houses at 4 in the morning and went to the grocery store to buy coloring books and trash mags and act out scenes from Monty Python. (Price Chopper was one of two places in Amsterdam open past 10pm; The other place was Fastrak, infamous for its rumored parking lot drug deals.) When I was trying to fall asleep alone, I would journal frantically for hours, pouring out my tormented teenage soul. I listened to soothing (or arguably, depressing) music, staring up at the ceiling for hours in the dark.

Mike, one of the Greco Boys and my boyfriend at the time, slept. I felt like I hardly ever saw him because he spent his time doing one of three things: working incessantly, playing Smash Brothers while drinking Mountains of Dew (there are photos), and sleeping.

I would corner him to have an important conversation about something, usually trying to figure out what we were going to do when I set off for Minnesota, and he would fall asleep. And the closer it got to my departure, the more he slept.

"You know, honey, he's stressed out," his mom would tell me. "That's how he deals with stress. He sleeps. Andrew is the same way."

Which brings us back to now, when I'm reading Andy's blog posts about being tired and figuring out how to balance all the demands life throws our way. He recalls college, when "sleep was just another thing on my list like dinner and homework." Yup. Got a big project due? You reallocate your time, take some away from sleeping and dinner and add it to schoolwork. You feel yourself getting sick, you power through until a weekend when nothing is going on, and then you just get slammed by that head cold and don't leave your bed for two days. And then you're behind.

You know the drill, I don't need to go into detail here.

A lot of the "introduction to being a grown-up" articles I read throughout my average week note fatigue as something that will be a part of our lives as adults. "You will be tired," they say, as if staring into a crystal ball. "You will be more tired than you ever thought possible."

At the time I first read this, I thought, you are crazy. It is not possible that I would be more tired in my well-balanced adult life of going to work, going to the Y, going to sleep at a reasonable hour that will give me (theoretically) 8 hours of sleep. Also, remember how little sleep I got in college, how many nights I got home at 5:00 in the morning or stayed up until 2:00 eating chips and salsa with my podmates (on a Wednesday)?! I functioned just fine back then.

But I was young. I remember my mom, all through my childhood, falling asleep pretty reliably at 10:00. She used to say, "OK, brush your teeth, I'm turning into a pumpkin!" We just knew that after a certain time of night, she would not be involved in family activities. Even if she tried to be there, she would nod off and start talking nonsense. We laughed, but we weren't surprised. She just got worn out by the end of the day.

Now, I don't know why, because I spend my days sitting in front of a computer or behind the windshield of my car, but I get tired. I can hardly watch movies anymore because I fall asleep 10 minutes in. Jason comes over and we try to have conversations, and I fall asleep mid-sentence and start talking nonsense. I often try to carry deep, metaphysical conversations with him about things like spiders. It doesn't make sense.

After battling my overactive brain for most of my life, I changed my strategy for living. It was a good day if the sun goes down and I am physically and mentally exhausted. There will be no lying in bed for hours, wishing I could just fall asleep. I want to have maximized my awake-time so that when night comes, I can maximize that too.

But to be honest, it's getting in the way. There are not enough hours in the day for me to be exhausted at bedtime, because there are still 10,000 things to do. Not sure what it's working on, exactly, but I'm certain my mind is working while I sleep (yes, I know it's scientifically proven). Lately I have been dreaming, vividly, every night. The dreams all have a similar theme: I am on a task force, tracking down a killer or taking down a mafia, and it becomes clear that I am the next target. So I give the task force a get-out-of-jail-free card and finish the job myself.

In my dream, the job never gets done. I always wake up right as I look my enemy in the eye.

I probably average 6 hours of sleep a night, which isn't bad; but I'm doing a lot on those 6 hours of sleep. (See the section of Andy's recipe for it all to work out titled, "5 Parts Fuel.") I do work out almost every day. I eat. I problem solve, in my own life and at my job. I have meaningful conversations with people, spend time with my friends, with my family, and with my man. I want it all to be quality time, but right now I'm running at max capacity and I can't cut corners anywhere. I have no time to reallocate, no hours to move from one category to another.

And last week I maxed out. Something's gotta give, right? With me it does. Every now and then I need to really recharge. I do get a lot of energy from being with other people, but I'm the type of person who needs to schedule time to think. There's something not quite right about that, but I don't quite know what to do about it.

On Saturday I spent the day at the beach with my girl Kristy. We both set aside the whole day to just lie outside and do whatever we want. And talk about whatever we want. Topics that are important, that we don't even have time to breach in a normal week. We swam a lot, tired out our bodies, and talked ourselves into silence. (If you know Kristy OR me, you know this is nearly impossible; if you know both of us, well, you probably don't believe me when I say that we actually had patches of silence on the drive home.)

And I'm starting to feel like a normal person again. Not all problems get solved by constant worry and attention; some just need to be left alone for awhile.

And now, it's time for bed.

the same room together

I have been carrying this pervasive anxiety around with me for at least a few days now, with spikes every now and then. Not without reason. There are a lot of legitimate things to worry about these days, in the unexpected barrage of stressors following the 1-year mark after college graduation. I know for a fact that I am not the only one feeling this shallow-breathed constant state of near panic under the wave of "OMG-so-THIS-is-real-life." (Or is it, "OMG-so-this-IS-real-life"?) Too many things to do, and too many things to pay for, and too many things to figure out.

On Saturday I went to a birthday party at Yakitori Boy in Philadelphia's Chinatown. The party was for my boyfriend's twin brother's girlfriend's college friend, who I don't know that well in the overall scheme of things, but I've met her before and I like her.

We had a private karaoke room reserved for the night. The room was supposed to hold 30 people, but it felt pretty packed with 17 or 18 of us there. The tables were loaded with food and drinks, and most people sang at least one song. We shook the place with rousing choruses of karaoke classics like Don't Stop Believing and HEY! Must be the money! The weirdest part was when everybody chimed in for songs I'd never heard before (Alive by Pearl Jam, for example), but as far as I'm aware everybody had a really good time. I know I did.

But I couldn't shake one nagging question: What would it take for me to get 30 of my closest friends into the same room for four hours?

Audrey answered that for me on the phone last night: "It would take 30 plane tickets."

That's almost true. It would take a few international plane tickets and a few domestic ones, a few bus or train tickets, a few hundred dollars' worth of gas. It would take a LOT of hotel rooms or empty beds or camping mats for out-of-towners to sleep on. It would take planning YEARS in advance to make sure everyone was available, which they still wouldn't be. And the question of the room still remains: Would my 30 closest friends fit into my basement lair? Would they want to gather there?

And I realized I am homesick.

Not for a place, not really. From time to time I ache for Amsterdam (the Upstate New York ghost town whose denizens are choking on their gravy fries at the thought of anybody getting out of there and wishing to come back). Lately I've been longing to return to the land of my birth, to Ecuador, the land of fresh juice and home to some serious family history and one fifth of the world's bird species.

I'm homesick for my mainstays, for people who know me really well because we've done our time together. As much as I hate that this is true, I am losing touch with who I am because they are not around to remind me.

Or maybe I am just not the same anymore. What an excruciating state of being. In flux, unknown, undefined, feeling the path in front of my carefully with feet I can't see through an aggressive haze. How am I supposed to introduce myself to people or have normal interactions with anybody if I don't even know who I am?!

That's not true. I do know who I am. I am a reliable ENFP; I'm a cat person; I'm more of a morning person than a night person, but I hate napping as a rule; my color is yellow even though I hardly ever wear it; I'm an organizer and a creator, according to the color test; I like original tart fro-yo the best in a row of interesting flavors; I'm an initiator, anxious to put things in motion but not quite as patient when it comes to seeing them through.

I am also not nearly as impulsive as I pretend to be when I take these myriad personality tests, so who really knows. I'm never as decisive in real life as I am when I have two options in front of me, and there are zero stakes for the outcome.

I guess I know, for the most part, who I am at my core. But how does that fit into my current roles? How does my Core Self interact with future best friends instead of past ones? What does Core Self want to be doing at work 5 or 10 years down the line? How much at odds is my Core Self with the vague set of house rules and family expectations, and what is Core Self's chosen form of rebellion?

What did the packaging around Core Self used to like to do for fun? What do I like to eat? What do I like to wear? What's my favorite color and my favorite flavor of ice cream?

A lot of the answers to these questions are changing, suddenly and drastically, or at least seemingly so. And that just makes my people seem so far away, separated from me by a year or more of unshared experiences, unfamiliar settings, diverging dreams. My close-fisted love cannot punch through that haze.

I've been drafting this post in my head for a few days, and the seed took root in my solar plexus probably long before that. And after addressing these life-shaking issues through a series of solid conversations and connections (via Facebook chat, phone, Skype, cross-country "<3" text messages, a trip to the mall and DIY pedicures with my sister, a sit-down family dinner with special guests Carly and CJ, and bantering with my mechanic about debit card culture) it feels unfair to say that I am homesick and that I miss my friends and I feel out of touch. It feels unfair and it feels false and fragmented.

My sister said Saturday that she is lonely. I'm afraid I was a bit dismissive of this comment at the time, not sure how to respond. I remembered being 16 and certain that isolation was both unbearable and interminable. I remembered being 19 and certain that the same isolation would cause me to die unheeded. I remembered being 20 and freely admitting that my number one fear in the world is being alone, and informing everyone who would listen with inherited missionary zeal that I was no longer afraid of that because it is, in fact, impossible. I can never be alone. My fear of loneliness stemmed from the misguided impression that the only relationships with enough weight to bear the burdens of the world were eternal romantic ones; not so, it seems.

And then I thought, "Well, everyone is lonely." It's a shared human condition. That's the beauty of it. We are all together in feeling alone.

So, once I recognize that I'm back in a (dark, scary) place I've been before, I can start to reteach myself that connections don't ever completely disappear, that some of them are stronger than ever even when they are just gathering dust, that there is always room for new ones. I can get a grip on who I am even in the absence of defining roles and characteristics.

And hope this time it sticks.

history & holiday

Inevitably, when I think about today, I think about todays of the past. Where I have been and what I have done on recent Independence Days. On Christmas I think of past Christmases, on my birthday I think of past birthdays, on March 12 I think of where I have been on past March 12s...

This is somewhat unfortunate because the post I woke up and thought to write today is essentially the same one I wrote last year (which I highly recommend you all re-read), and while it would probably turn out different today through a lens one year thicker, I kinda want to write something new.

This is what holidays are all about, though, if you think about it: looking through a thicker, richer lens at an event worth remembering, commemorating. The Fourth of July is not celebrated the same way today as it was 200 or 100 or even 50 years ago (or even 10 or 5 years ago, in my case), and there is something special and profound about this simple fact. We are still celebrating the independence of our nation, but that means something different to us today than it did back in 1776.

On July 4th, 1776, 13 dudes in powdered wigs celebrated independence by adopting the Declaration of Independence, severing on paper their ties from the Mother Country, Britain. This famous document is most famously (or infamously) known by these words:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."

This passage today would undoubtedly be a lot longer, imbued with political correctness and all of our nation's intellectual developments from the past 236 years. (It probably wouldn't even get signed, because Dems would have one version and Reps would have another version, and each side of this invisible barbed-wire fence would refuse to even read the other side's version.) But 236 years ago, it was fresh and groundbreaking and signified a big and important change in the lives of the colonists.

Back in the Revolutionary Era, the colonists used to celebrate independence by staging mock funerals for King George III as a symbol of the end of his reign on this side of the pond. A little morbid, but you can see the roots of some of our modern traditions in their celebrations: bonfires, parades, shooting off cannons and muskets. George Washington (though he strangely shared a name with the king) doubled the rum rations for his troops on the second anniversary of the signing. (Booze, pyrotechnics, parades? Sounds about right.)

July 4th didn't hit calendars until 1781, though, when Massachusetts made it an official state holiday. Over the next decade or so, the major political parties held separate Independence celebrations in many of the major cities (which, might I remind you, would not have included LA or San Francisco or Seattle; we're talking Philadelphia here). Back then, the 4th of July provided an opportunity to make grandiose statements of patriotism and political affiliation. It was a critical sealant on the bonds of our baby nation. Almost a century later, in 1870, Congress established Independence Day as a federal holiday, but it wasn't until 1941 that it became a paid holiday for all federal workers.

Probably the major symbolism tying all these various celebrations together? The red, white, and blue. (Despite the fact that John Philip Sousa didn't compose The Stars and Stripes Forever until 1896! Just imagine. 100 years of Independence without that illustrious march...)

It is weird to consider how much our culture has changed since T.J. wrote that important document (by hand). These days, we know ("hold these truths to be self-evident") that not only men (read, straight white men in powdered wigs) but also women, former indentured servants, and people of other races are created equal. Or at least that all of these groups are endowed...with certain inalienable rights. We're still working on gay men and women, and haven't even figured out how to approach transgender, and we're not so sure collectively about that "Creator" business, and we can't quite seem to get the "total equality" thing down.

But we're working on it, and this day is one thing we can't really fight over. Today we all proudly wave the same flag, regardless of what platform, political or otherwise, supports its post. I think we can all agree that those original, elemental tenets of T.J.'s brainchild still have a lot of potential to expand and grow, and that we need to keep carrying them forward through our country's ever-morphing culture. But this is as good a time as any to look back and recognize our roots, and how far we've come since their planting.

Stay safe today, fellow revelers. Avoid burns at the hands of grills, fireworks, and the sun, and please stay off the road if you've been drinking. But take a moment to acknowledge what you're most proud of in our nation's history, and think about what you hope to celebrate, and remember, next July 4th.



***
P.S. If you read my post from last year, you might have noticed that I've spent a lot of July Fourths with my dear friend Alex, who less than a month ago returned from a post-grad year abroad and writes a BEAUTIFUL blog, which can be found here. His latest post is a fitting tribute to just what I'm talking about here.

things i want to do in life.

1. Set aside time every week to write letters. I am a Snail Mail Responder of epically snail-like proportions. Yesterday's mail yielded not one, but TWO letters addressed to me, both from Twin-Cities-based friends named Timothy (or some variation). One of the Timothys, typically a quick responder, apologized for leaving two months in between letters due to moving and other major life transitions. I felt a bit guilty about this seeing as 2 months is a pretty standard response time for yours truly. Plus getting letters is so great, every time I get one I am inspired to write letters and send them to all the corners of the globe. This epistolic inspiration leaked into the ambition centers of my brain and set it to churning out the following list of oft-repressed life ambitions.
2. Be a writing tutor. Why isn't there a writing center in this city?! If I could coach essay writers every Saturday I would be a happy woman.
3. Be the real-life equivalent of a CEL peer advisor. That is, I have a constant nagging urge to critique resumes and cover letters, to coach job search processes, share interviewing tips, give career advice, and administer personality tests like the Myers-Briggs. That being said, I have no real desire to actually work for the CEL. #CELyourself? Puh-lease.
4. Become a communication and team management coach. Probably a prerequisite of this is getting some serious communication and team management experience. I'm sure many CEOs and team leaders are dying to be bossed around by a 22-year-old lib arts grad with a nose ring.
5. Spend more time at the library. Like, go to book clubs and (nonexistent) writing groups and write a blog post on the library computers once a week and do research and tutor people in reading, writing, or English... Or just curl up in a chair and read something easy every now and then.
6. Find a grown-up poetry open mic, and get up the guts (and the memory) to perform.
7. Bring my exercise ball to work. I got a (blue) exercise ball for my birthday, and back in December I asked my bosses if I could replace my office chair with it as long as we didn't have any visitors in the office. They reluctantly agreed, if I could find a black one, and the issue kind of went to rest -- except for them making fun of me for trying to make our firm into a mini Delawarean Google/Facebook, wearing a nose ring, and eating organic unprocessed foods. But I did actually find a black ball, and just haven't got up the guts to bring up the issue again. My body cries about sitting in a desk chair 40 hours a week.
8. Spend time outside every day. Even if it's just 15 minutes. Vitamin D, baby.
9. Save more each pay period. (Translation: Be more frugal about entertaining myself and my people.)
10. Know how much moolah I have in my bank account at any given moment. I am infamously bad at this. One time (in college) I tried to buy a Subway sandwich on my debit card and it was declined. Punch line: When I went home and checked my checking account balance, I had just over $2.00 in there. #winning...
11. Go swimming once a week. I LOVE swimming. And it's SO good for the bod. And I used to do it every week, without fail. So why don't I do it more? I have to fight the community swim team and the little kids in water wings for a lane at the Y.
12. Get wild roses...and not kill them. This is pretty much futile since I have probably killed most plants I come into contact with, but they really make my heart beat faster. If I had them in my place of residence it would be impossible not to be content at any given time.

13. Dress up like a pirate for the Wilmington Pirate Festival this weekend. I haven't played dress up maybe in over a year. Have you seen my childhood?
14. Visit the Dogfish Head brewery and the brewpub in Rehoboth. It feels blasphemous to live in Delaware, be a craft brew afficionado, and not have been to Dogfish Head. Especially since I wear their earrings, but even though I dislike IPA, which is pretty much the specialty.
15. That being said, Get noticed for my Dogfish Head earrings when I go to the brewery. Fortune and fame, baby.
16. Get up from my desk a few times per day. I've been getting kinks in my hips, quads, obliques... Too much sitting. Too much switching between the gas and the brake pedals every day of my life.
17. Learn how to do basic maintenance on my own car. When I was little, I dreamed of growing up to be the woman who could fix the VCR by herself, without resorting to the help of a man. (Can that still be an allegory...?)
18. Watch Back to the Future. Yeah. Somehow haven't seen it yet. Happy (Faux) Future Day, by the way.
19. Write my own rap, instead of bumming of Luda's rhymes for the rest of my life.
20. Finish my girl talk research. Like...write the book about it.
21. Publish a book. Maybe girl talk. Maybe a novel. Maybe a children's book. Maybe poetry. Maybe a collection of essays. Who knows.
22. Get over my serious apiphobia. Fear of bees and wasps. 'Nuff said.
23. Visit the Pacific Northwest in October. Full itinerary over there, man. Wow. Portland, Seattle, Vancouver... Friends of all stripes.
24. Go to ALL the weddings. Already dropped the ball on this one. #KansasCity
25. Live in a small town or at least a city with public transit.
26. DO something about public health, instead of just writing angry blog posts/crying about it.
27. Visit the ocean at least once a year.
28. Be part of an active community. Again. Like St. Olaf, but...not.
29. Never stop learning new things and meeting new people.