Walking through or into darkness, it is often hard to find hope. Moving through turmoil and turbulence doesn't seem to lend aid. You find yourself hungry for the change, but despairing that it might not come. Where in this darkness are you likely to find light? Where in the turbulence is the steadiness?
Though it seems melodramatic to say, as this is hardly comparable to other much darker difficult places I have known, I have found it difficult lately to have hope; to be joyful. This state isn't typically noticeable to those who don't know me all that well. While I've grown more blunt as life has taken the edge off my timidity (I'm sure some would read this and think, "What timidity?"), most people say that I'm always happy.
Case in point, in a very normal occurrence for me, last weekend two strangers remarked at it. One man I met interrupted the flow of conversation to indignantly inquire as to what I was "giggling" at. Of course, not only was I largely unaware I was even doing it, but hadn't a clue as to its inspiration. Not in a crazy, get-her-help sort of way, but it's just something I do all the time - not to mention get called out for regularly. I suppose it's peculiar to not withhold ones outbursts. The other instance was with a French man I met (less surprising that he should take note of my abnormal happiness, as the French tend to be more reserved in their expressions). After hours of conversation, most of which had been translated triangularly due to my out of practice ear, he told our friend he noticed that I smile all the time. I remember explaining this to others when I was in Paris with a cheerful shrug, "Je suis heureuse! [I'm happy!]".
I have been so out of sorts that I have been retreating to be alone as much as I can stand, being a rather undeniable extrovert. Subconsciously yet consciously avoiding that, when in the company of people, they want to talk about things. Further irony is that I'm a verbal processor... This is all exactly what I do when I shut down: isolate and muse. Though it may sound strictly negative, (and maybe someday I'll decide that it is,) I know I'm doing it and yet I'm fairly certain it's just what I need.
There are a few gems of activities where I can distract myself. Thankfully, sleep is still one of them. Running. Volleyball. Prayer. That's the big one. Currently, the idea of sitting down with the Bible is exhausting. Worship has felt a little dry. I felt like I couldn't lead people when I barely have the capacity to ponder my own circumstances, so I put down my small group. But prayer...it's this bizarre space where I'm focusing my energy and my communication with God on others, yet I feel alive and whole. That is my zone right there.
It simultaneously scares and excites me, because I do worry that I'll say the wrong thing, but it's also so great when somehow I say exactly the right thing and I can see the person before me being encouraged. I leave those interactions with more fuel than I came into them with. God showed up, and met someone where they were at, getting at me in the process! It is the only beautiful battle, one where freedom is truly bestowed; that is a sacred space. There, there is joy and there is hope amid whatever darkness.
That is not specific to just me, which I think may be the best part.
Sunday, November 09, 2014
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Eyeliner Alicia
Recently I was thinking about my adolescent self - who I was before I learned to make decisions without caring what people thought of me. In my mind, to myself, I refer to this as Eyeliner Alicia.
See, not long before high school, I started wearing makeup. I think the "rule" was not before 14. I was thankfully exiting my awkward stage, and transitioning to public school after my initial nine years in private grade school (not as glamorous as it sounds, believe me). Freshman year, I would style my hair every day, sometimes blow-drying it before straightening it. Me factoring an hour into my morning just for my hair! I would put on my makeup, usually during the bus ride to school. I felt plain, and somehow discovered that eyeliner made my eyes more dramatic and hence stand out. It became my staple; I felt naked without it, which only made sense because I was embarrassed of what was underneath: plain old me.
Now, I'll only clarify this once here: I don't say any of this to shame people who wear makeup or like doing their hair - rather to tell the story of how I grew out of it, I suppose. And make no mistake, it was only in recent years that I received the vote of confidence I needed to call it quits.
On some off day sans my usual face, a few of my family sat down to dinner together. My brother Shayne is not really one to dole out compliments or flattery, one might think that the idea wouldn't cross his mind as he only expresses the reality he beholds. Among the smattering of dinner conversation topics with a family of busy-minds, Shayne commented, "You look really nice, what are you doing different?" Not wearing any makeup...and I was sold! Granted, it took a while for people who saw me regularly to stop asking if I was feeling okay, but it was liberating to not have to worry what someone might think if they saw my real face.
Sometimes I think about how many consecutive days of my young life were spent wearing eyeliner; how many hours were totaled up applying the pristine stroke of black crayon under my lashes; how much stock was put in thinking that doing this would make others value me...
In reality that's what it came down to. I can't even say subconsciously because that's not true - if I'm honest with myself, for so long I was afraid of not putting on a face and I knew it. There's nothing inherently wrong with makeup (at least that's how I feel at this point in my life), but I don't like that my security was ever found in a daily work of art other than my natural self. It was wildly freeing for me to stop buying eyeliner - though, scary at first, I should add.
There's something about that piece of my life and the subsequent putting down of the pencil that I see as being a part of my understanding of self and growing in confidence. In my head, Eyeliner Alicia is the same one who was afraid to do so many of the things that I have done since I primarily gave up the ritual. She is the one who got walked on by people. She's the one who was afraid to speak up for herself...or in front of a crowd or even a group! She was the one who needed to know so much more firmly who she is, so as to move forward unshakably into bigger things than she'd imagined.
This evening, I saw a commercial for an anti-aging cream. The woman said she would embrace all that life would bring, except for wrinkles (she called them "frown lines"...okay...). I thought, whether it be baby-weight, age-spots, or laughter lines, I can't wait to embrace whatever life brings me, without pretending that I'm something I'm not.
See, not long before high school, I started wearing makeup. I think the "rule" was not before 14. I was thankfully exiting my awkward stage, and transitioning to public school after my initial nine years in private grade school (not as glamorous as it sounds, believe me). Freshman year, I would style my hair every day, sometimes blow-drying it before straightening it. Me factoring an hour into my morning just for my hair! I would put on my makeup, usually during the bus ride to school. I felt plain, and somehow discovered that eyeliner made my eyes more dramatic and hence stand out. It became my staple; I felt naked without it, which only made sense because I was embarrassed of what was underneath: plain old me.
Now, I'll only clarify this once here: I don't say any of this to shame people who wear makeup or like doing their hair - rather to tell the story of how I grew out of it, I suppose. And make no mistake, it was only in recent years that I received the vote of confidence I needed to call it quits.
On some off day sans my usual face, a few of my family sat down to dinner together. My brother Shayne is not really one to dole out compliments or flattery, one might think that the idea wouldn't cross his mind as he only expresses the reality he beholds. Among the smattering of dinner conversation topics with a family of busy-minds, Shayne commented, "You look really nice, what are you doing different?" Not wearing any makeup...and I was sold! Granted, it took a while for people who saw me regularly to stop asking if I was feeling okay, but it was liberating to not have to worry what someone might think if they saw my real face.
Sometimes I think about how many consecutive days of my young life were spent wearing eyeliner; how many hours were totaled up applying the pristine stroke of black crayon under my lashes; how much stock was put in thinking that doing this would make others value me...
In reality that's what it came down to. I can't even say subconsciously because that's not true - if I'm honest with myself, for so long I was afraid of not putting on a face and I knew it. There's nothing inherently wrong with makeup (at least that's how I feel at this point in my life), but I don't like that my security was ever found in a daily work of art other than my natural self. It was wildly freeing for me to stop buying eyeliner - though, scary at first, I should add.
There's something about that piece of my life and the subsequent putting down of the pencil that I see as being a part of my understanding of self and growing in confidence. In my head, Eyeliner Alicia is the same one who was afraid to do so many of the things that I have done since I primarily gave up the ritual. She is the one who got walked on by people. She's the one who was afraid to speak up for herself...or in front of a crowd or even a group! She was the one who needed to know so much more firmly who she is, so as to move forward unshakably into bigger things than she'd imagined.
This evening, I saw a commercial for an anti-aging cream. The woman said she would embrace all that life would bring, except for wrinkles (she called them "frown lines"...okay...). I thought, whether it be baby-weight, age-spots, or laughter lines, I can't wait to embrace whatever life brings me, without pretending that I'm something I'm not.
Friday, September 19, 2014
For My Heart of Hearts
I am someone who can quickly become insecure about whether or not I'm loved by someone. Panic sets in. What are likely irrational thoughts swirl through my mind in a stormy vortex. It is a place I don't want to revisit, but my memory returns me to at the slightest familiarity.
It's not unlike when I was 17 years old, I was in a car accident. It was my first car, and I loved that car. I was driving through a green light, where someone was turning right onto the road I was on, but rolled through the light and turned out wide just as I was passing through the intersection. I saw it happening, but was in slight denial. The comparatively-gigantic, teal Chevy suburban annihilated the front right fender of my tiny '91 Mitsubishi Galant, leaving me with a flat and totaling it. Most who know me well would say I'm a confident driver, but still over seven years later, I flinch and hesitate when someone takes a right turn into the lane next to me.
Everyone will say they love deep; I say I love deep. I love deep within my many limitations. I am the kind of person who when I say I'd do anything, I really would. There have been times in my life where deep love has withstood the pressures of great intimidation. (I say this not to brag, but to help make a point; bear with me.) When I love someone, I want to make sure they know it. Those closest to me are the people I'd do anything for, and I'd like to think they typically know who they are.
One of the hard lessons I have learned in my yet-young life is that of rescinded love. That is love that was once there, though only seen in hindsight as shallow, suddenly dissolved. When it happens to you, it's earth-shattering; reality altering, truly, because love felt so secure. The overwhelming sense of admiration for another person. The place where differences aren't disparities at all, rather glowing elements of near magic that you awe at. You can't imagine life without them if you tried, because it puts a knot in your stomach.
And it happened.
Even having recently received all the answers, it was inexplicable. My heart never hurt so bad. The thought of the pain now, makes my eyes well-up. I can sincerely say, nothing else has hurt like this; to have someone I loved walk away without reason or word, or seemingly care. I have acknowledged it, - do acknowledge it, but the mark this left on my life seems unshakable. I carry that with me into every friendship I have; every relationship in which I deeply invest.
Even having recently received all the answers, it was inexplicable. My heart never hurt so bad. The thought of the pain now, makes my eyes well-up. I can sincerely say, nothing else has hurt like this; to have someone I loved walk away without reason or word, or seemingly care. I have acknowledged it, - do acknowledge it, but the mark this left on my life seems unshakable. I carry that with me into every friendship I have; every relationship in which I deeply invest.
I believe love means never finding a reason good enough to throw in the towel. Some may think that's naive, but it's not. I wish I could go back and live that out, when in times past I've failed to because my experience conditioned me to, and I adapted...whether or not it was right.
Someone recently told me they thought that everyone should get fired once, - spoken like a true person who's probably never been fired, because it's awful. You spend some time wallowing in self-pity, then in the next job you miraculously manage to land, the time that isn't specifically spent doing your job, is spent wondering if you'll get yourself fired.
Having your heart broken teaches you some things that take some unlearning, - like to be afraid of loving deeply because it might get you hurt - but it also teaches you through experience how not to love poorly. This has been a five year lesson for me, and it still aches; it's still awful, sometimes. It also helps me not to give up on the ones I love, because I know how terribly it hurts to be given up on. I strive not to let my love be so weak.
Saturday, September 06, 2014
The Baggage We Carry & Intentionality
Relationships are tricky. Supposedly there is a science to them, but they're so unpredictable. They affect who we are. There's nature, and there's nurture. There's some ambiguous time called "The Formative Years" that people will refer to, - whoever knows what that even means - but I think it's a lot longer than it implies...that's a whole other animal.
Relationships. We cannot do without them, and they alter us for better or worse. This is an arena I can speak to only from my own experience. I've always been someone who craves relationship (okay, yeah, who doesn't?), and it's taken me a long time to realize where I have been unhealthy about it. And because relationships are always in the forefront of my mind and generally a facet of life, I have been thinking lately about how ones in my past have affected the me of the present. There are two in particular that have been on my mind.
I will start with the one I messed up. I had this friendship that, if it were still on-going, would be my longest friendship. There's something that when you're immature, you can't appreciate about a lifelong friendship. I have been mourning this relationship again as I near two years that it's been gone. I thrive when I'm known well by a handful of close friends, and conversely I tend to suffer when I feel like I'm not known well by a handful of close friends. Thinking about that, brought thoughts of this relationship back to me. I recently reached a heart-breaking conclusion about the demise of this friendship: I failed. When it happened, and for so long after, (and if I'm honest, still from time to time) I thought I was justified in throwing my hands up and walking away. The truth is that I didn't have enough grace. I didn't want to keep letting my hurt go, so I ran with it. I am officially done letting any part of myself believe that I didn't have a role in things.
Such a realization has helped me. It's humbled me; it does humble me. Granted I carry the predisposition that asking to be treated well may result in another severed friendship, it's taught me to tread those waters lightly. It's taught me that losing someone altogether is a lot worse than struggling to find patience and grace. Among many other things.
I guess I can't say that I didn't mess the other one up either. I had this good friend in high school, two good friends; a guy and a girl, who dated at the time. We were like Three's Company - except I don't think that was ever a love triangle. Anyway, we were all three best friends, one of us a little more...difficult to tolerate than the other two. *Ahem*! I don't want to sound like I'm justifying myself or my actions, but we clicked. Being a naive 16-year-old, I continued having hours-long phone conversations and hanging out late at night with him, letting him try to learn my favorite songs on the guitar - unwilling to acknowledge, or maybe blind to the fact that I was walking into a world of hurt. It wasn't fair to me, but I wasn't wise. I got my heart all tangled up, in a way that an older, wiser me is all too aware was incredibly stupid. One day, I called. They had a talk and were going to be serious about making their relationship work. Cue heartache.
Everything about it had seemed perfect, save for the fact that someone else was his girlfriend...
Ever since, I've been gun-shy. I sit somewhere in wanting most of what that relationship was, and viewing nearly every relationship with a guy through the muddied lens of that one. Pieces of how it affected me only occur to me now. And I'm sure more will come out if ever I do bother with a romantic relationship.
These are just two of the experiences that have marked me. Everyone carries their own experiences, hundreds of them. Some big ones whose impressions take some serious undoing, and some smaller ones that only scrape our surface or buff our hard edges. Thinking about my experiences in relationships on all levels makes me constantly think about the places I have impact and what I choose to do with that.
They have me thinking about the weight and importance of intentionality in relationship. I can do what feels the best or the easiest, or I can intentionally make a choice to do relationship well. We can either constantly live under the weight of our baggage, or we can learn from it and walk forward with intentionality into better, life-giving relationship. A lesson I'm sure I will endlessly learn.
Relationships. We cannot do without them, and they alter us for better or worse. This is an arena I can speak to only from my own experience. I've always been someone who craves relationship (okay, yeah, who doesn't?), and it's taken me a long time to realize where I have been unhealthy about it. And because relationships are always in the forefront of my mind and generally a facet of life, I have been thinking lately about how ones in my past have affected the me of the present. There are two in particular that have been on my mind.
I will start with the one I messed up. I had this friendship that, if it were still on-going, would be my longest friendship. There's something that when you're immature, you can't appreciate about a lifelong friendship. I have been mourning this relationship again as I near two years that it's been gone. I thrive when I'm known well by a handful of close friends, and conversely I tend to suffer when I feel like I'm not known well by a handful of close friends. Thinking about that, brought thoughts of this relationship back to me. I recently reached a heart-breaking conclusion about the demise of this friendship: I failed. When it happened, and for so long after, (and if I'm honest, still from time to time) I thought I was justified in throwing my hands up and walking away. The truth is that I didn't have enough grace. I didn't want to keep letting my hurt go, so I ran with it. I am officially done letting any part of myself believe that I didn't have a role in things.
Such a realization has helped me. It's humbled me; it does humble me. Granted I carry the predisposition that asking to be treated well may result in another severed friendship, it's taught me to tread those waters lightly. It's taught me that losing someone altogether is a lot worse than struggling to find patience and grace. Among many other things.
I guess I can't say that I didn't mess the other one up either. I had this good friend in high school, two good friends; a guy and a girl, who dated at the time. We were like Three's Company - except I don't think that was ever a love triangle. Anyway, we were all three best friends, one of us a little more...difficult to tolerate than the other two. *Ahem*! I don't want to sound like I'm justifying myself or my actions, but we clicked. Being a naive 16-year-old, I continued having hours-long phone conversations and hanging out late at night with him, letting him try to learn my favorite songs on the guitar - unwilling to acknowledge, or maybe blind to the fact that I was walking into a world of hurt. It wasn't fair to me, but I wasn't wise. I got my heart all tangled up, in a way that an older, wiser me is all too aware was incredibly stupid. One day, I called. They had a talk and were going to be serious about making their relationship work. Cue heartache.
Everything about it had seemed perfect, save for the fact that someone else was his girlfriend...
Ever since, I've been gun-shy. I sit somewhere in wanting most of what that relationship was, and viewing nearly every relationship with a guy through the muddied lens of that one. Pieces of how it affected me only occur to me now. And I'm sure more will come out if ever I do bother with a romantic relationship.
These are just two of the experiences that have marked me. Everyone carries their own experiences, hundreds of them. Some big ones whose impressions take some serious undoing, and some smaller ones that only scrape our surface or buff our hard edges. Thinking about my experiences in relationships on all levels makes me constantly think about the places I have impact and what I choose to do with that.
They have me thinking about the weight and importance of intentionality in relationship. I can do what feels the best or the easiest, or I can intentionally make a choice to do relationship well. We can either constantly live under the weight of our baggage, or we can learn from it and walk forward with intentionality into better, life-giving relationship. A lesson I'm sure I will endlessly learn.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
In the Weight of Death is Love
I haven't taken many silent drives in my life, in fact I can probably count them on one hand. This was one.
Even when you know where you're going, mortality is a hard thing to understand. To really sit with the thought that this is goodbye; it's it. A concept you don't expect to be able to comprehend, but in that moment; pondering the finality of that goodbye, it hits. Hard. Confusion that you are even feeling the weight of that moment hits. The impact is accompanied by uncontrollable tears and sobs from the pit of your stomach, not unlike retching. I wasn't ready.
More than anything, I was scared of what I would feel. I was scared of the inevitable pain. I hadn't done this yet, this close. I have experienced a death before and it was a moment that, while it sounds strange to say, I cherish. Being present to that moment was life-changing. When you witness death, you grow up so much in only an instant. And I don't know how anyone could witness such a thing and question the separation of body and being. That's where it hits again: this is real. This is my reality, right now.
Even when you know where you're going, mortality is a hard thing to understand. To really sit with the thought that this is goodbye; it's it. A concept you don't expect to be able to comprehend, but in that moment; pondering the finality of that goodbye, it hits. Hard. Confusion that you are even feeling the weight of that moment hits. The impact is accompanied by uncontrollable tears and sobs from the pit of your stomach, not unlike retching. I wasn't ready.
More than anything, I was scared of what I would feel. I was scared of the inevitable pain. I hadn't done this yet, this close. I have experienced a death before and it was a moment that, while it sounds strange to say, I cherish. Being present to that moment was life-changing. When you witness death, you grow up so much in only an instant. And I don't know how anyone could witness such a thing and question the separation of body and being. That's where it hits again: this is real. This is my reality, right now.
I let myself feel it the whole long drive to the hospital with the words ringing in my mind, the doctors said it's time to come and say our goodbyes. My first reaction was No! not unlike a stubborn child does not want to do what they're told because in their eyes it's unfair. Exactly that, in my eyes this was unfair. The thought slipped through my mind that this was probably a terrible time to be driving: rush hour traffic, hyperventilating slightly, hot as hell, and the waves of reality washing themselves cruelly over me.
It wasn't until I was about ten minutes from the hospital that I said, "Okay God, I'm ready to talk to you about this; I need to talk to you about this, because I can't go in there without that." Not knowing what I was headed into, knowing these things can sometimes turn around, I asked for the wisdom to know if we were to pray for healing. Healing prayer might be totally off the radar for some, but it's something I believe in, while knowing there are times when it's not going to happen. God told me, no, this is it. The realization sunk deeper in. I asked for wisdom, and was blunt, "I hate this, it's so unfair! I'm not ready." Then without a doubt in my mind, I heard Jesus say, I'm ready, I've been waiting. He's coming to be with me; that's not unfair. As quickly as the reality of the goodbye had come, peace set in and the tears ceased. I could breathe.
The evening that followed in the hospital was beautiful and difficult. Nearly the entire family was there, -- someone said nearly 30 people. We sang hymns together, and I spent much of the night at his bedside, holding his hand and thinking, they just don't make 'em like this anymore.
For a little over a year now, God had been doing this thing where He rests what I now think is [only] a portion of the weight of His love for another on me. It's overwhelming and heavy, and beautiful, and it takes my breath away. God did that. He continued -- and has continued -- to give me reminders of how overjoyed He was to get to take him home; that it was a celebration of my grandfather going to be with Jesus. That He was jealous for my grandpa.
After he passed, we all stood in the room as again the reality washed over us. Bursts of sorrow came and went, as embraces flowed throughout the room. In the silent lull of tears, we began to sing a few short choruses by memory. Before, I had never really bought into the idea that our loved ones looked down and watched us, but while we were singing one of those short hymns, God comforted me with a small insight. He showed me that He was standing with my grandpa -- in rejuvenated form -- who leaned over quietly, as he would, and said to God so simply and emphatically, "Oh! I like this one; this is a good one."
I already feel like I have spent the last five days explaining this phenomenon to others. Sunday, I discovered what it is: the peace that passes all understanding.
"When this perishable will have put on the imperishable, and this mortal will have put on immortality, then will come about the saying that is written, “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law; but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your toil is not in vain in the Lord."The night of my grandpa's passing, there was a woman in the hospital who stopped my mom and I. She was also losing someone; her mother. She said, "I first experienced death when I was young, and I don't know if you have a faith, but if you do, this will make it real." While I agreed, I also sort of shrugged it off, because I had experienced death before and my faith already was real to me...but she was right. Heart-wrenching, confusing, and unthinkable as it is, in this experience I've become more and more in awe of Jesus and heartbroken for anyone that doesn't have the freedom, peace, and love that relationship with Him brings.
In these last five days, my heart has learned new pain, but the roots of my faith have grown down deeper.
In Loving Memory: Without Apology, With Humility
When in an instant you think of a person dear to you, it's like understanding the meaning of a word without simultaneously rattling off its definition. It's just knowing.
When I think of my grandpa, -- when I really stop to pull apart what comes together to make up who I knew him to be; who he was to me, many things come to mind...
He had a quiet way that was so endearing and comforting; it never seemed as though he was uncomfortable, but merely thinking. You could always trust that he was musing on something, and he was ready to share if you were smart enough to ask. He wasn't eager to stand in the limelight, but carried a waiting wisdom. There was always a calm about him, yet an authority that if he did quietly speak, it demanded attention. I think of his soft chuckle, and then of his hearty laugh. He had a playful spirit, he loved to tease, and had a great wit about him. I have yet, in my life, to meet anyone who more willingly served others. I've certainly never seen a man treat a woman so well as he treated my grandmother. He loved stories, -- told great ones. He was charming, but not in an insincere way. He lived out giving everyone the chance you know that he sincerely believed was after God's own mercy.
The morning after his passing, at breakfast I was even reminded of the way he would pour the cheap little creamers into his bad diner coffee, and stir just so. Everything he did, was just who he was, without apology; with humility.
There are many more pieces that make up who I knew John Dale Baxter to be, and my memories of him will live on in impromptu trips to Dairy Queen, stirring the necessary cream into bad diner coffee, and the quiet strength that drives the wisdom to speak. I was honored to know and love such a man.
When I think of my grandpa, -- when I really stop to pull apart what comes together to make up who I knew him to be; who he was to me, many things come to mind...
He had a quiet way that was so endearing and comforting; it never seemed as though he was uncomfortable, but merely thinking. You could always trust that he was musing on something, and he was ready to share if you were smart enough to ask. He wasn't eager to stand in the limelight, but carried a waiting wisdom. There was always a calm about him, yet an authority that if he did quietly speak, it demanded attention. I think of his soft chuckle, and then of his hearty laugh. He had a playful spirit, he loved to tease, and had a great wit about him. I have yet, in my life, to meet anyone who more willingly served others. I've certainly never seen a man treat a woman so well as he treated my grandmother. He loved stories, -- told great ones. He was charming, but not in an insincere way. He lived out giving everyone the chance you know that he sincerely believed was after God's own mercy.
The morning after his passing, at breakfast I was even reminded of the way he would pour the cheap little creamers into his bad diner coffee, and stir just so. Everything he did, was just who he was, without apology; with humility.
There are many more pieces that make up who I knew John Dale Baxter to be, and my memories of him will live on in impromptu trips to Dairy Queen, stirring the necessary cream into bad diner coffee, and the quiet strength that drives the wisdom to speak. I was honored to know and love such a man.
In Loving Memory
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Summer Night Nostalgia
Sometimes when I'm falling asleep at night, I think maybe I'll wake up in the morning and be a kid again. It's probably nothing short of normal, but I have, since, graduating college felt the sting of the reality of growing up. And there's something about a humid summer night, with only an oscillating fan for relief, that reminds me of childhood. Maybe it doesn't help that I gave up on the idea of holding onto my queen bed for being married some day and returned to a twin, for which I have one old pale pink fitted-sheet from when I was a kid. Laying there, sometimes I slip into thinking, what if I wake up tomorrow and I'm nine again? Nine was a good age, I think. You were still your own person, with reckless abandon.
Today at the beach, I failed to restrain a chuckle as this dad with two children, very close in age, struggled to calm them from the vicious, apparently contagious cry-cycle they were inflicting on one another. I watched his valiant effort to calm and re-dress them while whichever one he wasn't paying attention to burst into crocodile tears. I chuckled, but not out of a mean spirit; rather, I appreciated that this father dared to go it [to the beach] alone. Think me not insensitive, I assumed he was simply taking them on an outing and not forced by some tragic circumstance to parent alone this way all the time. I appreciated him.
My dad, and again not to slight him in any way, was not much of a kid person. I always say I think he likes us a lot better now that we're adults. His version of such an outing was to take us to the Y with him, while he got in a workout, we swam endlessly - and cheerfully - in the pool. On the way home was a Super A, and dad's treat was to stop and let us each get a can of Super America brand pop. There was something extra-good about that soda, even still I think nothing can quite compare. Oddly Shasta is the only thing that's ever quite come close. I think I drank a lot of grape soda back then, but there was also a strawberry-kiwi or watermelon-something...that was dad's excursion, albeit a relatively safe one.
I have what feel to be infinite memories of getting home in the summer time from a family vacation where we roadtripped somewhere. It was usually hot and sticky; it was usually July, sometimes to Duluth and back for Independence day. We always brought our own pillows with us, all piled into the car. Being Losiers, we left late and got home late, so I was almost always asleep when we finally arrived. I learned the feel of the car slowing down on our exit, and my body would wake just enough to sense that we were minutes from the comfort of home. I knew the right, then the hot-left, then the other right, and up into the driveway. I'd sit up and sleepily verify my inferences, looking through the windshield at the house number on the garage, lit by the floodlight above it. 1110.
We'd always unpack the car of at least the essentials. I remember that feeling of mellow-dramatically trekking the stairs to my room, and the sweet relief of plopping on my belly into my familiar, welcoming bed.
Sometimes, in the summer, I imagine that I will wake tomorrow in my white, four-post bed, in my bedroom with the blue wallpaper with little pink bows all over, and stumble downstairs to pour a bowl of Berry Kix.
Today at the beach, I failed to restrain a chuckle as this dad with two children, very close in age, struggled to calm them from the vicious, apparently contagious cry-cycle they were inflicting on one another. I watched his valiant effort to calm and re-dress them while whichever one he wasn't paying attention to burst into crocodile tears. I chuckled, but not out of a mean spirit; rather, I appreciated that this father dared to go it [to the beach] alone. Think me not insensitive, I assumed he was simply taking them on an outing and not forced by some tragic circumstance to parent alone this way all the time. I appreciated him.
My dad, and again not to slight him in any way, was not much of a kid person. I always say I think he likes us a lot better now that we're adults. His version of such an outing was to take us to the Y with him, while he got in a workout, we swam endlessly - and cheerfully - in the pool. On the way home was a Super A, and dad's treat was to stop and let us each get a can of Super America brand pop. There was something extra-good about that soda, even still I think nothing can quite compare. Oddly Shasta is the only thing that's ever quite come close. I think I drank a lot of grape soda back then, but there was also a strawberry-kiwi or watermelon-something...that was dad's excursion, albeit a relatively safe one.
I have what feel to be infinite memories of getting home in the summer time from a family vacation where we roadtripped somewhere. It was usually hot and sticky; it was usually July, sometimes to Duluth and back for Independence day. We always brought our own pillows with us, all piled into the car. Being Losiers, we left late and got home late, so I was almost always asleep when we finally arrived. I learned the feel of the car slowing down on our exit, and my body would wake just enough to sense that we were minutes from the comfort of home. I knew the right, then the hot-left, then the other right, and up into the driveway. I'd sit up and sleepily verify my inferences, looking through the windshield at the house number on the garage, lit by the floodlight above it. 1110.
We'd always unpack the car of at least the essentials. I remember that feeling of mellow-dramatically trekking the stairs to my room, and the sweet relief of plopping on my belly into my familiar, welcoming bed.
Sometimes, in the summer, I imagine that I will wake tomorrow in my white, four-post bed, in my bedroom with the blue wallpaper with little pink bows all over, and stumble downstairs to pour a bowl of Berry Kix.
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