Possesed

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

On a Lighter Note

I suppose it feels like I should ease myself back into heavy blogs. Trust me, I have a lot to say-- a lot to sort through. But even though it has been months, most things are still underdeveloped. So, instead, I’ve decided to ramble of things much less ambiguous.

Last week I signed a new lease for an apartment I had been eyeing. The studio is small anyway, but even smaller because of its slanted ceilings. The attic look has always struck some kind of good chord with me. I used to think it was a cozy factor, but I’m wondering if it’s the challenge to fit furniture that intrigues me. I can’t describe this place with having crisp books on the shelves and fresh paint brightening it up, because, well, it isn’t mine yet. So far, it smells of cold coffee and is full of all the tattoo art and music equipment you could fit in the few square feet. (compliments of the current tenant).

But come August, I imagine I will try making it my own. I have said all of this to arrive at what I am really trying to say, and that is how interesting it is to me what makes people “happy” (comfortable, content, satisfied, excited). This isn’t intended to be some kind of  “awe-evoking moral lesson” blog. But rather, just a ramble of my recent wonder. It is fascinating to watch everybody react differently to their drug of choice.

For me, it’s change. Always has been.

I get that sort of “high” from moving across the country or taking new classes, or picking a new wardrobe style or cutting my hair, or transforming a man-cave into something livable or seeing God in a new way…or planning in my mind for four months how to decorate my new studio apartment.

But the thought of an engineering degree bores me and a new, pink, bedazzled phone case wouldn’t turn my head for even a second, and no boy at a bar is going to give me butterflies. Just as the person sitting next to me couldn’t care less that I get to move out on my own again soon.

What is, perhaps, the most interesting aspect of this idea, is that these things—these silly little things—make up (at least for me) what defines happiness. I mean, sure, there is the initial foundation of real happiness that comes from Something Else, making any of this possible in the first place, but it is sometimes channeled through tangible measures. Which is kind of cool if you ask me.

Because while I am working to earn a career and I worry about money sometimes and I have lists of goals to reach for my life as an adult, it is so nice to know that a cup of tea might just be the thing that matters the most for a minute. Or a walk across town at night, or returning a dollar to someone who has dropped it, or a vase of flowers you find sitting on a red table at a coffee shop.

Coming Soon

This is my "running out the door, desperate attempt to continue blogging, I feel terrible that I haven’t posted recently" kind of apologetic post.


Please understand that I am dealing with crowds nearly pushing down my door, demanding, "Post another blog!" and letters from all of my thousands of fans I can't even get to. It's not easy being so needed.


Okay, okay, the truth:
I am disappointed in myself for rejecting such an exercise that I so desperately need. So, this is an “I Owe You” to myself. A pathetic excuse of an apology.


I still think about writing a lot (just like some people think about doing their laundry or going to church). But school and work seem to want me all to themselves. Sometimes I sit down to write, but then I get this constant tapping on my shoulder… “You have a test tomorrow”  “You need to get ready for work.” So I shamefully close the notebook I was so sneakily trying to write in, and get back to life.

I want to write about saying goodbye to my car, and what God has been doing, and having children, and springtime, and my evocative drive to school, and my thoughts about Film, and the people I have seen in new light, and my newfound happiness, and the art I find in telephone poles, andmystickyspacebutton, and a new apartment, and defying patterns, and relationship, and sun in the window and crumbs on my counter.

All I can say is that I will soon (eventually). I have got to get this writing into words, before I become an introvert forever.

Wish me luck.

Sincerely,

My Busy Self

An Excerpt of a Memory

We walked back from the pub that night, full and tired. The streets were lit only by the occasional porch light left on. Most residents were indoors by then, except the few smokers or those without an inside to return to. Even stray cats who had become wild might choose a different neighborhood to sleep, but I found the trash-lined streets perfectly fine. The Mothers who yelled at their children by day—even they—rested by night. It was a place that probably housed some drug exchanges and perhaps heard a gunshot from time to time, but it was a place I would call home—if only for that night.

I straggled in the back on the narrow sidewalk, having to pick up my pace when we crossed roads. The conversation ahead of me was a definite after-dinner topic—something slightly scholarly, but subject to be forgotten the second we reached the apartment. I didn’t hear much of it, though, for the only thing on my mind were my feet. After walking downtown for several afternoons, my sneakers had begun to rub on my ankles, and in an awkward attempt to shift my feet, my socks slipped down. This distraction followed me all the way back until I was finally relieved to flop the shoes off altogether.

The second floor apartment overlooked but more apartments and neat lines of paralleled- parked cars (with the exception of mine). It was cold and dark when we returned, but as soon as we clicked on the lamp and began stirring around, it was as if we had never left it. So, there we were, handling another night of uneasy transitions in getting to bed, followed by hours of lying awake in the dark.

The next day was a Wednesday and he had to work the lunch shift. I rolled over on the couch pretending to actually wake up that slowly while he got ready to leave. He tossed the apartment keys at my feet, nodded, and walked out apathetically.

Stronger Than Evocative

All I feel is the wind and rain slapping me in the face along to the music of Ben Folds. The gray sky is going to try trapping me here, I just know it. This town wants me. Its gravity has hold of me tightly, but I will find a way out. I will cut the cords of this lesson-less repetition and run.

Please Select Fuel Type

I am reminded, here, of when I was just a girl. Not a girl playing hop-scotch in church dresses, but the girl who thought she was a woman. A girl who had boundaries and kept them—who imagined things, and left it at that. She made mistakes, I imagine, but she probably used to regret them.

Remove Nozzle and Begin Fueling

Sometimes I remember feeling like home here. When it didn’t decide to move away from me. But mostly, I kept running anyway. And I will still. Because I had left and found new comforts, a new kind of solace. I had made new memories; doing everything I could to erase the old, good ones. There was a time when a year was nothing—a piece of cake. I could give up on my failed explanations, and start fresh. But I know that gibberish is for New Year’s Eve suckers. Fresh start is just a fancy way of saying you might finally be. . . okay. But just like that, "okay" didn't seem like very much at all.

Would You Like a Receipt?
No.

I can feel the pressure beneath my gas pedal, and my stomach turns. I am weaker than I thought. I am stronger than I thought. This is goodbye again, and I know it’s going to be a long one. The relief sets in as the buildings vanish and I’m allowed to imagine I’m anywhere. It’s quiet, comfortable, and I am almost back. But I left most of myself where it where won’t leave. In that insecure, evocative, walking home.


I near my street and am flooded with the lights of the city. But, no matter what, all I can see are those little, red, fluorescent lines that make up the stagnant image of 3:07a.m.

A Virtual Christmas

Somewhere hidden in phone lines and cyberspace is my family. With Christmas nearing, it’s hard not to think of those faraway. Lying in bed, before I open my eyes in the morning I imagine I’m home again and that my Mother is washing dishes and cooking breakfast. Before I open my eyes, I pretend that out my windows are towering evergreens and snow-capped mountains. For a moment, I am on that little swivel stool next to the fireplace, listening to some in depth conversation about nothing. Sometimes, I’m even sledding or playing Kick the Can in a ridiculous snow suit. Before I open my eyes in my own bed in my own house, I am home…where comfortable is an understatement. Then I get up and let the images dissolve back into my wishful thinking and call Mom.

 “We’re sorry, no one is available to take your call. Please leave a message….”

Click.

Which reminds me: These 21^st century gadgets have become so secondary to us, we’ve lost sight of what was once real. A few weeks ago, I was lying in bed in the morning playing on my phone, scrolling through the news feed on Facebook. One of my friends had posted a picture of Carbondale dusted in snow and its caption read “first snow of the year.” And that’s how I found we had our first snow. I reached seven inches away and pulled back the curtain to see that, sure enough, it had snowed.

Two nights ago I saw my sister in Hawaii over Skype , yesterday I drew a picture like we used to do as children and posted it on my little sister’s profile so she could be reminded too, and  last night my 9- year- old nephew asked “did you see my status?” It’s everywhere—all around us.

I remember conversations with my brother that lasted regardless of cell service. I remember my Mother’s voice and what it used to sound like before being separated by half the United States, and I miss that. I can even remember the way her fingernails fold downward and her distinct sneezes.  That half smile right before my Dad tells a pun is hard to decipher over the phone, but I remember it. Just the way I remember my sister’s foot tapping the piano pedal and trying to follow along. And just the way I remember my little brother’s face as he hesitantly joined the room when us girls were doing our hair.

But it has become harder to remember.  This will be the first Christmas I will spend away from my family…away from home.  I imagine that in less than a week I will get to scroll through dozens of pictures and will be a part of several phone calls to that small town in Washington. But I will miss the feel of my stocking  and the sound of my sister’s guitar. I won’t be there to bear the heat of the woodstove or to taste that coffee. This year, I won’t wake to kindling and bacon crackling on Christmas morning, and I won’t sit down to a meal with my parents.


 I guess I’ll just Skype them with my iPhone while they open their gifts that I bought online. Then maybe, I’ll even blog about it share that in my updated status. I’ll call them to say Merry Christmas and then send them a text to say how nice it was to talk to them. I’ll load up my Facebook albums with new photos and tag myself in theirs.

And if it’s a really good Christmas, I might just like it.

Rock Bottom or Something Like It

I’ve thought a lot about these “ruts” we get into as humans. How sometimes our lives seem to steadily swirl toward rock bottom, until finally we realize there’s space even below rock bottom.  For me, these ruts have lasted a while. I wouldn’t have called it depression, though, because I wasn’t sad. I didn’t have a problem getting out of bed in the morning, and I went through my days just as any other, but I certainly never looked forward to them. It’s a waiting game really—when will the next unfortunate thing happen? When will my car break down again or my dishwasher stop working? When will I find another unexpected bill set on the edge of the piano for me? When will I forget a research paper and fail a class?

And pretty soon, when I’d trip on my shoelace I wouldn’t chuckle. I didn’t even shake it off and keep walking. I would grunt and mumble (even when alone) something along the lines of “ugh, just my luck.”

I’d come to expect those things and merely roll my eyes…waiting. Waiting for rock bottom.

And it was at these moments that I could honestly say, I didn’t want to be happy. I tried praying—a lot. But I knew that somewhere deep down, as a “p.s” to my prayer, I was asking God not to answer me. Because my life was out of order, priorities scattered and passion a mess, and until it was right, I wasn’t willing to be content with it. I had to get it back.

I decided to start doing everything right. I stopped going out when I shouldn’t. I studied hard and worked long hours when I wasn’t doing that. I kept my house clean and ate well. I held the doors for strangers and got to bed early, I sat in church every Sunday and gave thanks for things I hadn’t before.

But I felt nothing.

I laid there in bed a few weeks ago, scrolling through Facebook on my phone when I learned of my friend’s death. And in that bed is where I stayed for two full days. I cried that entire night, I cried so much I wasn’t sure if it was possible to cry anymore. But then I would, and it was just as full and wet and sad as the cry before that. I sat up alone wondering why these things could happen to such a young, beautiful, kind, girl... and I still don’t know that answer. I thought and cried and though some more until six that morning when I finally had no energy left and I fell asleep. The next morning was foggy through my swollen, glazed eyes. I woke up too early and felt sick to my stomach when I realized is wasn’t all a dream. This was my rock bottom.

Then, before I had fully woken up, I got a call from my sister. My uncle had passed away. That is when I learned there was no such thing as rock bottom, and THAT was a terrifying thought.

In the least expected moment, God was merciful, and for some amazing, unknown reason, I was able to go back to work soon thereafter. He let me stop mourning and instead remember fondly. On what was one of the worst days of my life, I was pulled out of the rut.

They were taken to a place so amazing that I will always have something to look forward to. So, while it’s not up to us when we hit these ruts, or how long we’ll stay there, it is certain that we will be saved. Even in the hardest of ways.

It’s good to be back.

~In memory of sweet Ericka Wade and my fun, loving, Uncle Don~