Just People

We're all just people. That fact could be disappointing if it wasn't too busy being a huge relief.

I feel like I have less and less to say, and I don't know why. Everything inside of me feels still and silent and fine to slip into the shadows and watch. Maybe that's what growing up will be like for me. Softer, not louder.

I'm settling into my life, at least for now, at least this life. Later, things will shift imperceptibly or all at once and I will squirm into a fit. Maybe someday the squirming will stop, and I will think, I've been here long enough to know how this works. I've done this before.

I just realized that I've always assumed I was born generally knowing how to be mortal and human, but how could that be? I bumble through everything, and why not? I'm just a baby on this earth. I'm just people.

Practice

It's been a long day. Turns out, some aspects of not working are harder than working (though leave it to me to find the rub in my idyllic situation, regular old debbie downer). I didn't realize how much I relied on my job and its paycheck and routine time commitment to validate my days, and now I am constantly trying to figure out the worth of my work. My work. What I do to fill my time when the entire day is mine.

For the few of you still reading this blog (yay, Amanda!), you've probably noticed a drastic upswing in posts. That's me trying to find my writing voice again, in addition to slugging it out on the page. It is so so so hard. Unexpectedly hard. Want to quit hard. Nothing comes easily; everything is second-guessed. So I'm just coming back to this place again and again, hoping that hard won't last forever or that enough lovely and light will happen to make the hard worth it.

This sums up the day:

“Sometimes I think it’s harder for me to be transparent to myself than to appear so to the reader.”  

--Nancy K. Miller

Amen and amen.

My view

I am at the community library, admittedly eager to be taken in distraction because it strains less than the work I am trying to do. I listen to the man on the phone who asks the other end her blood type. I watch an unknown hand play with the electric blinds on the wall facing me, up and down, up and down, up and down. I'm slightly annoyed. I stare out the windows to my right: how the dirt patterns resemble that of brown trout, how even dirt accumulates beautifully. I scan the books on the shelves to my left: Programming Video Games for the Evil Genius and Naturally Fun Parties for Kids and Ventriloquism  and George Harrison: Living in the Material World. Apparently, I'm sitting in the nonfiction section of the library, which explains why the writing is giving me grief. Too many kinds of truth.

Suddenly, as suddenly as any plot twist happens in the kind of truth I write, a young woman walks into the scene pushing a stroller and corralling a toddler. "Say hi to Daddy," she says, and the toddler clambers onto a young man sitting by the blinds. His cheek-kisses are loud. The woman unstraps a blonde baby girl from the stroller and adds her to the dad's arms. Then the woman sinks into the kitty-corner couch and watches.

So different from my life.

Sometimes I resist sharing how eager anxious desperate afraid impatient I am to know what that feels like (a family, a husband, a child). That tune's been sung so many times before; no need to add. But it's still my heart and still my song, so today, I'm owning it.

On Borrowing

I was standing in line at Great Harvest, waiting for a loaf of honey whole wheat, and trying not to stare. A woman behind me stood with her mother, waiting for a loaf of something with raisins in it. 

Maybe it was the way they touched, arm in arm, then holding hands, then daughter's arm around mother's shoulder--how their togetherness evolved. Maybe it was the permanent confusion on the mother's face; that she brought her fingers to her mouth and dropped them again, discouraged that even her motions were beyond comprehension. Maybe it was the mother's white hair, her face heavy with wrinkles, how she wore her age like a mask.

For all of this, I found myself wishing I could explain: No, you're not a novelty to gawk at; no, I don't pity you. You're so familiar, only I haven't been able to remember until right now, watching you, and if I look away, maybe I'll forget again for too long. Thank you for your daughterness, your motheredness.  

June

Last Sunday, I made a new friend. Her name is June, and she turned 90 on June 26. Her husband Ralph died three years ago, and June keeps his picture in her reading room. She says good morning to him every day, and he smiles back at her. Sometimes she says more, but she didn't tell me what. 

June wakes up with the sun and does the day's work. She gardens and vacuums on different days because she doesn't have the energy for both. Once the day's work is done, she gives the rest of her day to God. She feels guided to study things that help her bless others. 

June believes in miracles.

I was supposed to be doing this writing, but...

I was supposed to be doing this writing, but my fingers stopped working. I don't mean they stopped moving. No--they tapped and rolled and tensed and released. They passed interesting sounds back and forth, one hand doing the wave, then right index finger against left in a dueling duet. They experimented with taps on the keyboard and on the table and on the skin, finding that each surface sounded satisfyingly like the raps of a childish drummer in a civil war marching band. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat rat-a-tat-tat-tat rat-a-rat-rat-rat-a-tat. They enlisted my leg--the one that always wants to keep time--and suddenly I was all tapping. Not writing. Just tapping, but not just, because I was looking out the back door at the pear tree, slightly less burdened with each passing day, and at the deck, slightly more burdened and stinking from rotted, fallen pears, and as I looked, I thought I might like to dance on that deck under the pear tree and really let the tapping loose.

[Meanwhile, the fingers persist through my daydream. "I wish I were in Dixie, hooray, hooray; I wish I were in Dixie, all the good boys are in Dixie. La da da da dum dum da da doo doo doo da dum dum dum da dum da dum dum da da doo da da doo da da doo da da dum."]

How lovely to be under the pear tree instead of here not writing because my fingers aren't working, having taken a vacation to the town of tap.

possible

i think i want to write because my windows are open and the presence of recent rain is encouraging. it even rains in the desert, in the summer; so: many things are possible. 

the thought calms. 

i've never liked failing, so i don't spend much time with possible. i prefer probable, i adore definite, i crave absolute, and as a result, i've become a career coward. we all have risk meters sewn into our hearts--sometimes they're called comfort zones--and though i have no idea how they are calibrated so differently for each of us, i understand perfectly when i've gone too far. possible is outside my comfort zone. i like calculated stretches. 

and yet. i've lately chosen my way to the edge of the cliff, hoping to force a leap or a fall, or most likely, a leap that feels convincingly like a fall right up to the last minute. it's possible.

sunday witness

he was blind; she was barefoot. he was walking up the street; she was walking down.

i've seen him before, swiping his white stick side across our sidewalk-less street. i've never seen her before. he's never seen me.

i've seen him walking at night, and perhaps that terrifies her because night is a season of others not-seeing. but what is night to him? 

i didn't see them meet and neither did he. his exclamations and laughter pulled my head up from my book and when i looked, i saw his face bury in her neck and his body take a deep, happy inhale. he knew that neck; he knew that smell.

they kissed like he could see her face. he collapsed his stick and took her hand and they walked up the street together.

(i didn't try to write like natalia ginzburg (because i can't), but on reflection, it occurred to me that i sound like i'm imitating one of her essays: "he and i." i'm okay with that, since it might get you to read one of my favorite essays of all time.)

blind spots

it's time for sleep. my perishable groceries are at the foot of the stairs. my sheets are in the dryer; my bed is unmade.

i'm trying this new thing where i set head aside for heart. it's not my strength, but so i find myself, blogging instead of bedding.

something today got me thinking about blind spots. it was possibly a near miss in that dangerous engine thing i strap myself into every day. it was probably the underlying feeling of vulnerability that stems from knowing i don't know it all, can't see it all, can't feel it all, can't see what i feel, and yet decide decide decide choose choose choose.

strange, isn't it; spaces we just don't see? reminds me of that experiment chuch loves where you draw several dots on an envelope and if you close one eye you can't see one of the dots, even though the whole envelope seems to be there. where does the dot go? where do the ducks go in the winter?

when my head is the driver, my heart is the blind spot. like it was never there.

afterword

the funeral finishes but not the sadness. as the benediction ascends on the wind of a collective sigh, two thousand mourners pull each other to solemn standing.  i grip my father’s arm. then-waiting. no moving, no sighing, no breathing. we linger in our refuge of stillness before they take the body away: one second for every grief, but only one, too soon to end. any disturbance and she will somehow be more gone than before. the cellist places bow on strings; church door opens. how dark was before! the melody paces our lungs expanding, the music translates the sun radiance into air, and we know what to do (we're breathing.)

if my prayers held hands i hope they'd circle the earth

i was thinking about the people i wanted to remember by prayer tonight, and i felt a little overwhelmed by the number of people in my heart. then, paradoxically, i felt a surge of desire to pray for everyone i know, which led to wanting to pray for everyone i don't know, and not generically but by name. how do i draw the line? how do i ever stop pleading for grace?

a short thought on home

tonight, the fog was so cut-it-with-a-knife thick that when i pulled onto the off ramp, i thought i was driving to heaven. my off ramp slants up, you see, and is under a series of lights bright enough to barely illuminate the fog. this wasn't a metaphor in the moment, no--in one of those awesome tricks my brain likes to play at the end of a very very long day, i actually thought for a breath that i was driving to heaven. it was a happy breath.

then i turned the corner, went down the same distance i upped, and remembered where on earth i was, though i couldn't see an earthly thing. i determined that home is the place that you still know how to find, even in the fog, and i was happy then too.

a dead poets society moment

note to the future me:

when i get tired with the world, or feel bored by life, or forget i can do new and good things that actually help people, stop. right then and there. read a book. have a conversation about something that matters with someone who’s passionate. go outside and marvel. sit quietly for 2 minutes and think about memory, vastness, how it feels to have a heart. the world is too real to waste it.

remember that on a not so cold day in january, i made new meaning of why i choose self-improvement as my forever quest: not because i want to be better than anyone else or even my past self, but because nothing else makes sense on this repeat-cycle earth than to go beyond where i am right now, to do something more gracefully and graciously the next time, to be differenter every moment than the last.

i must strive. i must push. i will make mistakes and muddy my face when i fall, and it will feel uncomfortable, even more so when the new me rubs tensely against the old. there will always be conflict between the way things were and the way things will be, the way i was and the way i will be. the best parts of life will spark from that rub.

this is my today truth.

anew

oh hey humans. you know why i love the word "anew" so much? because it balances both the newness and the againness of  the new year. that's an important balance, don't you think? we don't just peer into a brand new start, totally oblivious to what waits down the road; we stand at the top of a habit, on the back of a tradition, in the rut of our ways. i'm okay with that, some new and some again. if we didn't bring the past with us, there'd be no such thing as change.

so without further ado, my version of "resolutions."

1. be bold in relationships. i'm not totally sure what this means yet, but i think the year will tell me. i'm not just talking dating, so watch out humans--i'm a comin. 
2. buy a road bike that actually fits me. then ride it a lot, probs even hundred miles a lot in a century race. 
3. eat lunch and dinner more in than out. i'm 1 for 6 so far, but i can turn this ship around.
4. convince myself through habit that 10:30 pm is a wayyyy better bedtime than 1:30 am. 
5. surprise myself. this means thinking, 'i'm not really the type of person that would do xyz,' then snapping out of it and doing xyz. 
6. go at least one near and far place i've never been before. on purpose. 
7. love the ones i'm with. explore my hometown like i'm on vacation. put the phone away when i'm with humans. stop holding back at work. you know what i mean?
8. face the dream that feels so lofty i'm embarrassed to even mention it, then take one big step towards going for it. 
9. express gratitude to God and man every single day.

let me start with you. thank you, formless faceless idea of friends, for making me feel enough like someone is listening that i write stuff occasionally. i guess all i need to write is the idea, the possibility, of readers. i need real friends though.

i've also got another round of resolutions cookin, and you can participate if you feel so inclined and if i ever get it on this blogo. don't stay on the edge of your seats forever though.

go, live your new lives again.

resolved, 2013 edition

i get serious about my resolutions, you know, so more is coming. but here's the short list.

1. love more. both breadth and depth.

that time i went to china

i had such a terrific time. here are some highlights.

tried new food (enjoyed it not so much.)

 loved the people, especially our guides. seriously wonderful people.

yoyo. guided us by bicycle through the hutong.

oliver. best. guide. ever.

woman at silk factory. she kept calling us, 'my dear friends.'

may. best. style. ever. and yes, i was part of one of those tours with the flag.

thoroughly enjoyed the english translations on signs.

marveled at the architecture.

channeled Mulan at the great wall in honor of chuch.

felt a strange human kinship with the terra cotta warriors; over and over, wanting to know each story, and over and over, remembering they weren't real.

was captivated by the traffic (and grateful to come home alive. right after i took this picture our guide had to get out and stop all oncoming traffic so we could make it down this street.)

was entertained and enriched by the deep and totally different culture.

i hope everyone gets a chance to go to china. knowledge is love.

passion

i've spent the day in jammies, in bed, in contagious quarantine, in and out of aches, in a quiet snowy world where everything is muffled. even i have hardly said a word.

hello.

it's been mostly delightful in spite of the sick because i'm right in between too sick to do a stinkin thing and not sick enough to feel justified lounging in bed all day. that's a nice place to be, if you have to pick a point on the sick spectrum.

today i did things i never do. i read for hours. i researched phd programs. i responded to emails (at least some, the long involved kind.) i made doctor's appointments. i updated my facebook picture. i took notes about an essay i might write if i get the guts. i ate a whole carton of sorbet. IN BED. i paid money for apps like radiolab and this american life, and i slipped into a forgotten dream of writing for the radio.

 all of this--especially the sorbet--led me here, to one frightening towering question:

do i have passion?


i'm tempted to watch pride and prejudice and put the question away for a louder, more arrogant day, but i don't know if i have control over those kinds of things, especially since the day sort of led me here. i think i misunderstand passion, just as i misunderstand creativity, feminine sweetness, genius (of smarts or skill)--my default brain setting is that you're either born with these traits or you're not. and if you're blessed enough to be born into such traits, your will to choose is compromised. you wake up in the morning and you can't do anything but write! you encounter an unpleasant situation and your voice just comes out in honey tones and forgiving smiles! you sit down to the piano and masterpieces ensue!

clearly, it's selfish to think of passion this way because it absolves me from any responsibility to choose it, to create it, to fuel it, to constantly adapt it for survival inside an apathetic-trending world. however, i'd settle for a compromise (heaven, are you listening?) where passion would be demanding enough to determine its object but submissive enough to put the burden of pursuing that object on me. i feel like i know some people for whom this is the case. chuch and brains. kingfish and fish. ben and life. jan and recycling. why not me?

still thinking about lincoln

Gettysburg Address from Adam Gault on Vimeo.

when enough is enough

it's something about my time of life, maybe, but i keep wanting God to reach down and touch my life with a lightening bolt, a shout, a parting of the red sea days with a path to my promised land. have you noticed that when you are listening for something really loud, it's hard to hear something really soft? lazy ears. tonight i heard a song with these words as lyrics:

BE LIKE THE BIRD  

Be like the bird that, pausing in her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her -- and sings -- knowing she hath wings. 

from Victor Hugo

isn't that lovely? somehow it penetrated and was my whisper, my enough.  

 

so this is christmas

i'm sitting in front of my half-lit christmas tree, which, of course, means i'm overly nostalgic and sentimental. which, of course, means it's time to blog! i don't have much to say tonight. just this: i never thought i'd be here, hesitantly buying a few throwaway christmas ornaments, using a blanket as a tree skirt (where is that dirty ol blanket i used last year?), making transience my tradition. someday someday someday i'll settle. christmas is christmas though. it's really hard to mess it up with the Son of God, love's pure light shining so bright. i'm thinking about why this moment matters to me, and i don't think it needs to mean any more than a celebration of the things that never change and the things that always do.