FunFactFriday
Idiots on Parade

Last year's festivities

The Olympics are now officially two weeks away.

But if you just can't wait that long to cheer for someone as they pursue dreams of glory through feats of athleticism while wearing funny-looking outfits, and you live in the greater New York area, well then - you're in luck. Because tomorrow (1/30/10) is the seventh annual Idiotarod.

I trust you're all familiar with the Iditarod - the Alaskan dog sled race?

The Idiotarod is pretty much the same thing. Except people (not dogs) pull shopping carts (not sleds) through the streets of Brooklyn (not the frozen tundra of Alaska).

The exact race route is left to the discretion of each shopping cart team. They are given the starting point and the finishing line location, and it's up to them to get from Point A to Point B. As quickly as possible. (Without getting arrested or disturbing traffic, preferably.)

As the finish line is a secret, the start location subject to change, and the route not fixed, the event is something of a challenge to observe.

Last year I lucked out: I happened to be meeting SBG for a pierogie lunch in Greenpoint, Brooklyn on Idiotarod day. And just as I was exiting the subway, I saw these three carts (pictured above) race by.

One team was dressed as Romanian gymnasts. I have no idea what the other teams were supposed to be. All looked like they were having fun.

So if you happen to find yourself near Brooklyn tomorrow, keep an ear perked for that familiar rattle of a speeding shopping cart. And be ready to cheer on these fun-loving folks.

In the name of all that is weird, random, and unruly.

Shivers

Things are about to get sporty around here.

We're nearly two weeks away from the start of the 2010 Winter Olympics. And as you've probably figured out by now, I love me some Olympics.

To kick things off - let's talk about skating! (There are few things I like to discuss as much as skating. And since there aren't many others out there who also like to talk about skating, I often end up discussing it with myself. That's an unfortunately true story.)

The national figure skating championships concluded this past weekend in Spokane, WA. The results determined the team of skaters who will journey to Vancouver next month to represent the U.S.

My friend (and former roommate) Abbey-Denise invited me over on Sunday to watch the televised broadcast of the event.

A little background: The U.S. men's competition has been dominated in recent years by the Johnny Weir-Evan Lysacek rivalry. I'm sure you've read all the articles about it.

You haven't? Well, here's what you need to know: the galloping peacock parody in Blades of Glory was based on one of Weir's actual costumes (his was a swan). In contrast to Weir's artistry and feathers, Lysacek has positioned himself as the more serious sportsman, focusing on the technical (and point-garnering) aspects of the sport. There is no love lost between these two skaters, and they make no effort to hide that.

I've been a big fan of Lysacek since his 2005 season. While Weir is admittedly talented, he is inconsistent. Lysacek is more focused, more athletic, and (in my opinion) more charming. Heading in to the national championships, I expected to find myself cheering for Lysacek once again.

But when Abbey-Denise and I tuned in on Sunday, the Evan Lysacek we saw was covered in feathers (?!) and looking just a tad gangly and frenetic. He flubbed a few jumps and failed to impress.

And that's when Jeremy Abbott skated in and stole my heart.

I had somehow missed his win at last year's national championships. (In my defense, I was living in Brooklyn at the time. I missed a lot out there.) But this year, when Jeremy took the ice and skated two spectacular programs, I took notice.

I also took notes. Here is a rough transcription of our viewing of Jeremy's long program:

(Source)

[Jeremy takes the ice and begins a smooth opening footwork sequence]

Me: Look at his edge-work! The way he feels the ice! You know? There are just no wasted movements!!

Abbey-Denise: Yeah, I guess.

[Jeremy lands his opening quad jump]

Me: [enthusiastic clapping] Nice! His transitions are so purposeful.

[Jeremy lands a triple-triple combination; the music swells in intensity]

Me: I don’t know, there’s just something about him…something that reminds me of Kurt Browning.

Abbey-Denise: Oh, yeah?

Me: Yes, he has such grace and artistry, but there’s also such power. His skating is smart. Just like Kurt.

[Music softens.]

Me: You see!? There’s a vision, a passion in Jeremy’s eyes. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

Abbey-Denise: Do you want another drink?

Me: Wow. Wow. Wow. He has great arm movement and positioning. And extension. And his direction changes…wow. WOW.

[Jeremy nails his last jump of the program]

Scott Hamilton (on the TV): Game over!

Me: [kneeling on couch; hands clasped together; eyes tearing] Abbey, he's AMAZING!

[Music swells again, as Jeremy enters his last footwork pass]

Scott Hamilton (on the TV): That was a beat down, is what that was!

[Jeremy begins his final, flawless spin]

Scott Hamilton (on the TV): How do you defend your national title? You kick everybody’s back-side, that’s how! You are looking at your U.S. champion!

Me: [weeping silently]

Sandra Bezic (on the TV): That performance gave me shivers.


Me, too, Sandra. Me, too. And bravo, Jeremy. Bravo.

We'll see you in Vancouver.

Ree-Deemed


A lot of things made me smile this weekend.

I went here and there, saw this and that and the other.

Plus, I am 75% sure I passed G.E. Smith (you know, as in "G.E. Smith & the Saturday Night Live band"?) in the Village on my way to church Sunday morning.

And then I topped it all off with a sweet evening spent watching the National Figure Skating Championships (more on that later).

* * *

But something else made me smile this weekend, too. Shall I tell you?

Ok, hang on to your cowboy/girl hats:

Ree Drummond (aka Pioneer Woman) liked my photograph.

Whhhaaaattt!!??!

Remember this sucker, from my ManhattanHenge post a few weeks ago? I submitted it in the Pioneer Woman's latest photo contest.

And she liked it!!

Duders, there were thousands of entries in this contest! And so, so many photos of absolutely breath-taking beauty. Photos that make you think "the God who made this is awesome, and the photographer who captured His creation in such a way has some mad skillz." That kind of beauty.

And Ree picked my little picture to be one of the finalists! She said she loved "the grittiness of the urban scene, man." Awww, shucks.

I'm going to feel super gritty and urban when I go to B&H to spend my finalist prize money: fighting my way past the paparazzo picking out their telephoto lenses, weaving through the crowds queuing at the pretzel-and-coke refreshment table upstairs, snaking over to the Canon kiosk and competing for a salesperson's attention, and then retreating back downstairs to nervously determine the correct check-out line to join.

To quote Jack Johnson (once again): This city's nitty-gritty, but it's so much fun."

Thanks, Ree!! I'm tickled pink (but in like, a gritty and urban way) that you liked my photo!

To Teach Me Joy




In my own worst seasons
I’ve come back
From the colorless world of despair
By forcing myself to look hard,
For a long time, At a single glorious thing

A flame of red geranium
Outside my bedroom window
And then another:
My daughter in a yellow dress
And another:
The perfect outline of a full
Dark sphere behind the crescent moon

Until I learned to be in love with life again
Like a stroke victim
Retraining new parts of the brain
To grasp lost skills,
I have taught myself joy,
Over and over again…

By Barbara Kingsolver

* * *

The quote above comes from Barbara Kingsolver's book High Tide in Tucson: Essays from Now or Never and I came across it recently on a blog I often read.

The blog-writer (whose name is Penelope, but her husband calls her Lope, how cute is that?) writes "I love this reminder that joy is something that you practice. Something you keep doing and keep choosing. It’s a skill to be learned."

My initial reaction to all this practicing-joy junx was something along the lines of "Blah blah blah blah joy. Blah."

It sounded too much like the hackneyed instruction to "focus on the positive" and I don't like being told to focus on the positive. I don't know why. Actually, I probably do know why, but I'm not going to share it with you here. Because it's besides the point. And you don't have all day. So I'll keep this brief.

Despite my initial reaction of distaste, upon further reflection I couldn't get past the fact that the blog writer and Barbara Kingsolver probably had a point, about practicing joy. An inescapable point. A point I really needed to try to appropriate for myself. Give this joy thing a good-faith effort.

I'm out of practice. And as Barbara Kingsolver says, I need teach myself joy "over and over again." And as Penelope/Lope says, "it takes a lot of being gentle with myself… Kindly reminding myself that I’m in training. That it’s ok to start over. And start over. And start over."

So here goes. Scene One. Take One. Action.

* * *




The other night, I was making my way home after a long day. When I exited the subway I was greeted by the sound of a trumpet-player. I couldn't see him - he may have been standing around the corner - but I could hear him. In measured brassy notes, he sent The Nearness of You floating out into the night air.

It was my soundtrack for the short walk up Broadway, fading only as I turned onto my block. Love that song. Love the random accompaniment to the close of my day.

I took a moment to take joy in that.

* * *

As I neared my building, I passed a woman headed in the opposite direction. When she was several feet behind me, there came the (unfortunately) familiar night-time city-street sound of a rodent scuttling out from the trash cans and across the sidewalk.

The woman shrieked; I turned towards her and saw another rat dart across her path. She stopped short, jumped, and shrieked again - louder this time - before racing down the street on tip-toe, squealing "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew..."

I admit to taking a little joy in that scene, too.

FunFactFriday:
Nevermo' fo' Poe?

I read with interest earlier this week that the shadowy figure known as the "Poe toaster" did not show up for his annual appearance at Edgar Allan Poe's gravesite. Each year, for roughly sixty years, this unknown man had visited a Baltimore churchyard on Poe's birthday (Jan. 19th) and deposited three roses and a half-full bottle of cognac on Poe's grave there. But this year, the mystery man failed to show up.

Some people are speculating that the "Poe toaster" perhaps had car trouble, or a nasty case of the flu which caused him to miss this year's salute. Others, though, suspect that the tradition has finally come to an end, and the annual toast will be (to quoth The Raven) "nevermore."

I had previously read a few of Poe's works, but only under duress of middle school teachers, as macabre really isn't my cup of tea. (You know what is my cup of tea? Vienna Cinnamon. Yummers.) Though we share an alma mater, and though I currently live in Poe's old stomping grounds, my knowledge of Poe was pretty limited. I knew more about the strange homage paid to him after his death than I did about the life that preceded it.

And now that the "Poe toaster" annual tradition had (possibly) come to an end, I wondered what was it that had inspired such devotion in the first place? I turned to my trusty friend, The Internet, to find out.

My Non-Day Job

Looking in the window of a Hell's Kitchen gallery opening

So you know how I used to catalogue books for a neuroscientist/ yoga instructor/ Indian folk-song singer, right?

Oh, perhaps I forgot to mention that.

Well, I was introduced to the aforementioned Renaissance man through a mutual friend who thought that I – a lover of books – might be able to help this man who is an owner of books. Lots and lots and lots of books. Wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books. Books that needed to be scanned into a database, for both insurance and organizational purposes.

And so it came to pass last January that I was handed a key to his Hell’s Kitchen apartment along with a cataloguing software package, and I got to work.

The arrangement, though seemingly arbitrary, felt a bit providential. I didn’t need a part-time job, but what I did need – as it turns out – was space and structure. January was a heart-hurting month for me, and the routine of going to his apartment in the evening after my day-job gave me some structure with which to order my days.

I would ride the elevator up to the 42 floor (penthouse!), let myself in (he was rarely home), put on some music (Van Morrison, mostly, because his voice is downright curative), and then I would glide in stocking feet back and forth over the parquet floors, dragging armfuls of books from the shelves to my work table, which sat in front of a window overlooking lower Manhattan and the Hudson River. Van sang to me, and the lights of taxi cabs flashed below me, and the cataloguing software went “beep, beep, beep” as I scanned in each book.

Sometimes I thought. Sometimes I didn’t think. Sometimes I cried, and sometimes I sang along to “Tupelo Honey.” There was space for all of it, there in that room with a view. And all the while I scanned. I was keeping busy, and sometimes that’s the best thing for a hurting heart, you know?

But in February I got distracted by other activities, and the Renaissance man got seriously busy with other activities (including but not limited to proposing grants, recording a cd, and making a sculpture in Berlin) and the book cataloguing project fell by the wayside.

Until last week when the book-owning Renaissance man contacted me again to finish the project. His timing, once again, is rather providential: my improv classes haven’t yet started up again so I have a little free time in the interim. Plus, who can’t use a little extra cash after the holidays?

And so I found myself back in the evening routine from exactly one year ago. Which naturally led to some reflection upon last January - how some things have changed, but how some have not. How my heart has healed in some places, but hardened in others. How I’m wearing different shoes, but still walking the same streets.

Part of me wasn't entirely comfortable with this return to last January’s milieu. Part of me wished that more had changed in the past year, wished that my life looked more drastically different, or had moved farther forward. Part of me worried that I was just treading water, one year later.

* * *

At the end of my first evening back on the cataloguing job, I walked down 42nd street to catch the train. A now-familiar walk to a now-familiar subway station.

But when I got to the station, I realized that an important part of this routine has changed - I no longer take the same train home that I did last January.

Rather than begin an interminable & frustrating commute back to Brooklyn, I instead ride the 1-train just a few stops uptown. Exit at my cute neighborhood. Walk a quick block to my cozy apartment. Hear my sweet roommate call out "Rosie!" (because she calls me 'Rosie') as I open the door to a home that is so much better - so much homier - than where I was living at this time last year.

January of 2010 certainly trumps January of 2009 in terms of living situations. I remembered (and celebrated) that the other night, waiting for the 1-train to take me uptown.

I'm Back!

Perhaps you weren't aware that I left.

But I did. I went to Florida - to the beach - for a weekend away with old college friends.

And it was lovely.

So good to be there. To be away. To be free (if only temporarily) from our various responsibilities, free from our "real worlds," free from our workaday ruts.

It was nice to be free to lounge with no thoughts of to-do lists, and free to laugh. Laugh even though life is hard, and sometimes horribly tragic. Laugh even though our lives may not look exactly like we want them to.

Laugh even though our lives probably don't look like how we imagined they would -- however we imagined them -- ten years ago when we stood on the Lawn and got our walking papers into the future, graduated into our adult selves, moved away from each other.

But this weekend, we came from Boston, Detroit, South Bend and NYC (chez moi), to reunite. And laugh. And it was good.

My friend SmAsh (not pictured above) always says that he likes when friends make fun of him, because then he knows that they're really real friends.

Maybe because people who aren't deep friends are mired in politeness and can't joke around so freely? Or because mere acquaintances stay at surface-level and don't really know the real you? Not well enough to make fun of the real you, anyways?

I don't know. It's just something SmAsh says, and it's true for him.

* * *

I think maybe it was true for me, too, this weekend.

I was conscious of, and grateful for, the incomparable ease and comfort that comes with spending time with old friends – friends who have seen you through so many iterations of you over the years.

With them, it’s easy to own up to weaknesses – “Yeah, I’m chronically ambivalent” or “Yeah, one leg is shorter than the other” or “Yeah, I’m bad at spelling.”¹ To own up to these things without shame or fear of judgment. Without apology or defensiveness.

Because old friends already know it all. And love each other anyways.

And when we tease or joke about these things, there is no harshness, no aim to hurt. Just deep familiarity. But rather than breeding contempt, this familiarity creates a sanctuary and breeds laughter.

Or something of that sort. I’m guessing and hoping you know what I mean.

Anyways. It was a real lovely weekend.

¹ Some of those examples may or may not be applicable to me personally. I’ll leave it to you to guess. :)

Wary of the 'wear

* * *

Dear Diesel and Kujo:

Thank you so much for visiting me last month! I loved catching up, hanging out and sharing meals together. I was sad to say 'goodbye' and head off to work that Tuesday morning, leaving the two of you behind to pack up your stuff.

Confession: When I arrived back at my apartment that evening, I thought my bed looked kind of funny. The pillows, the comforter...something looked different. “Had one of you re-made it, after I went to work?” I wondered.

And then, naturally, I thought of teal green ladies nylon underpants.

You know, the ones we purchased for a lark at that Napa Valley Wal-Mart six years ago? The ones that cost us one (1) dollar? The ones we pass back and forth, surreptitiously hiding them in each other’s rain boots, umbrellas, messenger bags, purses, and guitar cases, in the hopes that the recipient will discover them at an inopportune moment (such as opening your umbrella in front of a cute fella, or pulling them out of your bag with a co-worker present)?

Confession: I thought you had hidden those teal green ladies nylon underpants in my bed. So I ripped off all the blankets - even rooted around inside the duvet cover - trying to find them.

But there were no teal green ladies nylon underpants to be found. Guess I was just being paranoid!

Fast forward one month. I was feeling under the weather tonight so I skipped the gym and came straight home after work. As I entered my room, I kicked off my work heels, flopped on the bed and reached for a tissue on the nightstand. The tissue snagged on its way out of the box, revealing something beneath it.

Wait a minute…

What the what…?

I *knew* it!!!

I'd been underwear'd!!!

You got me, girls, you got me.


PS - Love that your visit is still making me smile, one month later.

PPS – It occurs to me that MadDawg also had access to said tissue box during her visit in October. If she is the culprit, and not you two, then I apologize for the false accusation. But all three of you's better watch out, because these teal green ladies nylon underpants are on the move!

Brilliance

I saw some pretty fantastic things this weekend.

First off, The Improvised Shakespeare Company put on an amazing, foot-stomping, knee-slapping, laugh-out-loud production at the Barrow Street Theater on Saturday night. If you've never before seen a completely improvised Elizabethan-style play (and I certainly hadn't), I highly recommend you get thee to one, anon.

Beginning with an audience suggestion for a title (Saturday's was "The Taming of the Cougar") these fellows crafted the play's characters, plot, conflict, and resolution completely on the fly. What emerged was a lascivious (and downright deadly) cougar, a soldier-turned-drunkard-turned-hero named Claudio, his best friend - Perkyus - who fell victim to the cougar's siren song, a singing and dancing eunich who dared to defy his cougar mistress to help both young lads, a bickering Roman Senate, and two swarthy French mercenaries, who proved to be the undoing of everyone.

Not only were the players fantastic improvisers, but they improvised in Elizabethan English! Occasionally in rhyming couplets! Brilliant. And seriously funny.

I laughed 'til I cried. Then I laughed some more. Forsooth.

Several hours later, I saw an entirely different type of brilliance.

Yesterday was Manhattanhenge - the twice-annual event where the sunrise aligns perfectly with Manhattan's east-west streets. (The phenomenon is repeated by two sunsets each summer.) These photos were taken in midtown, looking east.



As I have to spend 45 hours in Midtown during the week, I generally try to avoid it on the weekends. But I was happy to spend some time on these streets this Sunday. The sunrise was something to behold.

To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven - to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
-John Keats

FunFactFriday:
That Stuy Guy

Stuyvesant Square, taken last fall

If you live in the greater New York area, you are no doubt familiar with the name Stuyvesant.

Perhaps you have a friend with a sweet apartment in Stuy Town. (Oh, the closet space!) Maybe you've been warned to stay away from Bed-Stuy (a Brooklyn neighborhood that can be...a little rough around the edges).

Or maybe you once supervised an intern who went to Stuyvesant High School, and who engaged in the following conversation with another of your employees, regarding a busted printer:

Employee: The printer is getting reamed!
Intern: A pun is the lowest form of humor.
Employee: Well, whoever said that is an idiot.
Intern: I think it was Shakespeare.¹ That guy is an idiot. I wrote a
play last year that was better than any of his.
Employee: What was it about?
Intern: Racist circus people.

(Lest you begin to think badly about the caliber of Stuy High students, let me clarify that the school specializes in math & science, not play-writing. And this particular intern was very skilled in other areas, such as writing development code and talking smack.)

But back to my point: the name Stuyvesant shows up all around town, attached to parks and housing developments, neighborhoods and schools.

But where did the name Stuyvesant come from? Until recently, the extent of my knowledge was that Peter Stuyvesant was "some old Dutch guy" and I was content to leave it at that.

Then I heard someone refer to him as "Peg Leg Pete" and I said, "Hold the phone!" If this guy had a peg leg, then I wanted to know more. So I did a little research, and here's what I learned...

Epiphany

On my birthday, a sweet former employer wrote on my Facebook page, "Hope the year is filled with...crazy moments that make you laugh until you cry."

Quite prescient of her - just hours later I was doubled over on a South End sidewalk, nearly unable to breathe, tears streaming down my face, as the Trafmeister Jenneral told the most hilarious steak dinner story you've ever heard in your life.

Good golly, that girl is funny.

But before that, earlier in the day, I was in the North End with MadDawg. We sought refuge from the cold, huddling around a back table at Caffe Vittorio (above). And as we sat there, comforted by coffee and cannoli, I heard a familiar voice.

It was Mr. Frank Sinatra, singing an unfamiliar song on the stereo.

Now, let me tell you something (and I'm not bragging - this information is vital to understanding the gravity of the situation): I own one 4-cd boxed set, one 3-cd boxed set, two 2-cd boxed sets, and seven individual cd's (plus one Christmas album) of Ol' Blue Eyes' music. I'm no stranger to the Sinatra oeuvre.

And still - still! - the song playing in Vittorio was new to me. Never before heard. An undiscovered gem.

I thought it was a pretty swell birthday present.

And then I thought: if Frank - a mere mortal who has been gone nearly fifteen years - can still surprise me with goodness, how much more so can the living God surprise me with goodness?

Gotta remember that. Gotta really remember that in 2010.

Here's to thawing cynicism and daring to walk the scary tight rope of hope in the new year.

Resolution Reading for Twenty-Ten

The Puck Building, SoHo

My reading selection was somewhat haphazard last year. Clearly not the end of the world, but ideally I'd like to be a bit more structured in picking books. Just to make sure I'm covering good ground with what I read, and all.

So I hereby resolve to read the following twelve books this year.

[Note: I can and will read other books as well, but the twelve on this list must be read, otherwise...I will have failed 2010. And I don't want to fail 2010. So I best get to reading, no?]

* * *

1.) Leaving Cheyenne by Larry McMurty - This isn't a book I would have chosen for myself, but my neighbor recommended it most enthusiastically (and weirdly). Plus, the author is a Pulitzer Prize winner, so I figure he's probably worth a read.

2.) Take the Cannoli : Stories From the New World by Sarah Vowell - Personal essays, the kind which I myself might like to write one day. So we'll call this market research...

3.) A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller - I can't ever seem to remember the title of this one, but I'm sure it's going to be good. As I look ahead and try to map out 2010 (to the extent that one can plan), I'm eager to hear Don's thoughts (it's ok if I call him 'Don' right?) on creating our own life stories.

4.) [Title TBD] by Graham Greene - I love this guy in a big way, and it's been too long since I've gotten lost in one of his books. Haven't yet selected which one I'll read this year. Suggestions?

5.) A Nero Wolfe Mystery by Rex Stout - If you've never read a Nero Wolfe Mystery novel, then you probably should. Stat! They're very entertaining, and surprisingly well written, considering Stout churned them out quite prolifically. (The particular book I pick will depend upon which volumes the NYPL has available that I haven't already read.)

6.) As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner - Gah. Mr. Faulkner and I haven't been on speaking terms since the mid-nineties, when I was forced to read The Sound & The Fury for English class. And hated it. Big time. But SBG said good things about this book, and perhaps it is time to give the author a second chance. After all, Faulkner served as the University of Virginia's first writer-in-residence. So maybe he and I should reconcile, in the name of dear old UVA.

7.) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald - Speaking of high school English class, here's another book that I hear deserves a second chance. I liked it ok when I read it in school, but a friend recently remarked that everyone should read it again when in their late twenties/early thirties, as they'll bring a different perspective to the story then. So we'll see...

8.) The Water's Lovely by Ruth Rendell - I'm including this book because its title has been scratched on a post-it note and stuck on my desk for about two years, ever since I read a favorable review somewhere. And I really want to throw that post-it note away. So we're going to make it a point to finally read this sucker.

9.) Air Guitar by Dave Hickey - More essays. Last year, Newsweek included Air Guitar in their list of top 50 books that "open a window on the times we live in, whether they deal directly with the issues of today or simply help us see ourselves in new and surprising ways." Ok, then. Sounds good to me.

10.) A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain - I've been crushing on Twain's pithy sayings for years, but I haven't read a book of his since Huck Finn was assigned in school. Or was it Tom Sawyer? Hmmm. The reason I can't remember is because I didn't actually read either. I was that kind of student. Time to make up for it now.

11.) Ragtime by E. L. Doctorow - Another recomendation from SBG. Sounds gripping good.

12.) Lies My Mother Never Told Me by Kaylie Jones - I figure I should be reading memoirs, as I'm currently attempting to help someone write their own. And this one promises juicy anecdotes of Mr. Frank Sinatra. Hot-diggity.

On the banks of the Charles...

"In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an
invincible summer."

- Albert Camus

Ringing Out

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true...

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1850

* * *

I like this poem. I like the sentiment.

What's more? I like that this year is over. I'm ready to ring it out.

To do that, I'll be using the cowbell I got for my birthday yesterday. It's painted white, with black lettering that reads "I got a fever..." (I'm guessing y'all know what the prescription is, right?)

No doubt it's just the sort of "wild bell" that Lord Tennyson had in mind.

And so - here's to peace, light, truth. Here's to gentle rhyming. Here's to finding a place and space to each ring our wild bell in the New Year.

Summation

Celebrating my golden birthday at Joseph Smith's birthplace.
Don't ask why.

Continuing with our recent theme of When Harry Met Sally quotes, here's one that's appropriate for me today:

Sally: …And I'm going to be forty.

Harry: When?

Sally: Someday.

Harry: In eight years.

Sally: But it's there. It's just sitting there like
this big dead end. And it's not the same for men. Charlie
Chaplin had babies when he was seventy-three.

Harry: Yeah, but he was too old to pick them up.

[Sally laughs, then cries.]

* * *

I am 32 today. I am inescapably, undeniably ensconced in my thirties.

Does this mean the end of my girlish youth (along with its infinite possibilities and potentials)?

I worry that it does. I worry that potential was squandered, and nothing really fantastic ever happened during said youth.

I wonder if this worry is a byproduct of watching too many movies where fantastic things have a way of always happening fantastically in the nick of time. Often during fantastic musical montages.

And because my life doesn't look like that - and is rarely set to a musical montage - I often fear and feel that I have somehow failed to live to the fullest of my fantastic potential.

But during all the recent holiday-season traveling, I took some time to review the events of my life thus far. And I have to admit...I've experienced some pretty fantastic things:


I have been chased by the police...
survived multiple white water rafting trips…
Texas Two-Stepped in Austin...
danced the Virginia Reel at a formal ball...
hid in a ditch...
perfected a one-foot figure skating glide...
escaped flash floods in Madison County, VA…
received a dozen roses, unexpectedly…
jumped from a 40-ft sailboat into the Boston harbor...
took Broadway Musical Jazz Dance classes...
walked on top of a frozen Lake Winnipesaukee...
canoed on Lake Superior…
dressed up as a nun for Halloween…
co-hosted a soiree for over one hundred of my closest friends...
taught swim lessons…
sold donuts door to door…
resigned a job and received an all-expense-paid trip to Puerto Rico...
played the trombone at an NCAA basketball tournament in Missoula, MT...
hopscotched with orphans in a Russian village...
got my nose pierced in the East Village…
spent a harrowing week at Financial Aid Boot Camp....
slept on a Boatel (part boat; part hotel)...
tried escargot…
sewed a sundress…
ran a 5K Jingle Bell Run with a black eye...
dove into the North Sea on New Year's Day...
published an article…
played hooky…
got accepted to grad school…
recovered from a break-up by taking kick-boxing classes…
stayed in a sketchy Italian hostel run by a sketchy man named Ivano…
rode in a sleigh through a Vermont maple syrup farm…
learned Hebrew...
drove cross country…
stalked Seth Rogan (briefly)…
ate fish & chips in Portsmouth (UK) then had high tea in London…
let a famous legal thriller author pay for me to ride a mule in Oregon...
bought a blanket and a poncho in Tijuana, Mexico…
attended a Pointillism art exhibit in Paris…
watched the sun rise over the Atlantic…
saw it set over the Pacific…

Naturally, there are things I wish I had not done, and there are things I wish I had done. I have a few regrets; I have not lived these last 32 years perfectly.

But I have lived them.

And it's not been boring.

Meeting Together

"The love of our neighbor in all its fullness simply means being able to say, 'What are you going through?'" -Simone Weil

I'm in full-on retrospecting mode this week. And as I've reflected on the events and happenings of 2009, I've come to the conclusion that I owe a big debt of gratitude to my Thursday morning girls.
In January, when I had to make a difficult choice and deal with the outcome, they hugged me and told me I was brave and strong. I believed them, and then I was brave and strong.
When I was prone to self-criticism and doubt, their affirmations bolstered me. When I brought the same issues to the table week after week, they never told me to get my act together. Their patience helped me have patience with myself, and reminded me that God shows patience to me as well.
When I leaped over hard hurdles, they cheered for me. When I said I needed to take a break from the hurdles, they assured me that was ok, too. When I moved in April, they showed up to unload boxes, make my bed, and settle me into the new apartment. When I broke my foot in June, they drove me to the grocery store.
One rainy day in September, during an especially trying week, an angel in yellow galoshes surprised me at my office, bringing with her a care package of fun snacks, a Vanity Fair, and a bottle of Scotch. Her care and concern carried me through that week.
Time after time after time this year, text messages/emails/phone calls from these sweet girls all arrived at the moments when I most needed them. "We're thinking of you," they said, "And we know you can get through this." I believed them, and I got through it.
Donald Miller remarked once in an interview, "Surrounding ourselves by communities of people who affirm a positive identity is the way to change." Upon hearing that, I thought, "Aha! That's exactly what my community has done for me this year!"
They affirmed my God-given identity, and they spoke God's truth to me. And slowly, slowly, I believed them. And then stepped up to inhabit that identity and believe that truth.
And so, as the year draws to a close, I want to acknowledge how blown away, humbled, and grateful I am for this group. Their love has not left me unchanged.

Towards Completion

Ceiling Sculpture @ Grand Central Market

In preparing to declare 2009 “complete”, I’ve been thinking over the following questions:

What is there to grieve about 2009?

What do you want to acknowledge yourself for in regard to 2009?

The grieving question has been tripping me up. After writing this "Looking Back" post, I spent a bit of time - well, looking back. Reviewing the events of 2009, and beginning to wonder if I wasn't being a bit self-indulgent and hyperbolic. After all - nothing really so terrible happened to me. Not famine, not disease (save one stress-fracture), not unemployment, not natural disaster. Did I really have any right to be so complaining?

I discussed this with my consigliere (who answers to the name of MadDawg) yesterday morning, and she pointed out that while its true no natural disasters or other similar hardships befell me in 2009, nonetheless there was a lot of emotional pain that made it a rather difficult year.

This was confirmed during my traditional end-of-year review of my journal. In endeavoring to come up with a potential theme for 2010, I reviewed what might have been the theme for 2009. The words that appeared most often in my journal entries included "terrified," "hurt," "confused," "frustrated." Not a good year, emotionally speaking.

And so I grieve that for myself. I grieve for the girl who hurt so badly this year. For the tears shed, and the sleep lost, and the unanswered questions. And I give myself permission to say, “Hey, that sucked.”

Consequently, when I look back to discover what I am proud of and want to acknowledge for myself in regard to 2009, my achievements are not physical or tangible things, not specific events I can point to. Rather, what I want to acknowledge are the hard-fought emotional battles - battles to correct thought patterns. Battles to come to a clearer understanding of reality, of my situation, of my self and of my self-worth.

I feel a lot stronger now than I did at the start of the year. I have a tighter grip on truth. I am more secure in the knowledge of just how fearfully and wonderfully made I am.

It was an uphill, hard-fought, struggling kind of a year. I grieve that I hurt, but I celebrate the view I have now from the top of the hill.

Leaving Town

Eastern Market Metro stop

Back in NYC. Am I home? I think so. But I was just at home in Virginia, too.

Growing up is weird.

The Day After

Icy snow on my parents' deck

Here we are, folks, the day after Christmas. Whew!

I've been thinking lately of that scene in When Harry Met Sally - I'm sure you know the one of which I speak. Harry and Sally are at Jess and Marie's December wedding...Sally is wearing that hideous 1980's forest green bridesmaid dress...Harry approaches and awkwardly initiates conversation, saying:

Harry: Boy, the holidays are rough. Every year I just try to get from the day before Thanksgiving to the day after New Years.

Sally: A lot of suicides.

Harry: Hmm.
Obviously I'm not feeling as drastic as all that, of course, but still - the holidays are rough. I am more than ready to be done with them.

In light of that, I'm going to post one more good word on the season of Advent, for all my fellow holiday-strugglers. Brett McCracken posted the following on his blog a few weeks ago; it was helpful for me to read then, and has been helpful to keep re-reading.

"As I enter into Advent this year, I’m burdened by just as many hopes and fears as the next guy. There is pain and regret in my heart, love and confusion, physical and emotional imperfection, and immense exhaustion. I sometimes just want to drink eggnog or mulled wine and listen to Over the Rhine’s Darkest Night of the Year...while languishing in self-pity and world weariness as stocks and bombs carry the torch of history’s tumultuous march.

But Advent accepts all that. It thrives on unsettledness, uncertainty, despair. Which is kind of bleak for a holiday season that is typically thought of as the merriest season of all. Until we recognize that our pain makes Advent all the more meaningful—to look forward, expectantly, longingly, to the moment when all the pieces (of our lives, of history, of heaven and earth) come together in a monstrous cymbal crash that reverberates in every corner and cranny of the concert hall." -Brett McCracken

So, fellow holiday-strugglers - take heart! Our pains makes Advent all the more meaningful, and we can look forward to a joyous resolution.

But until then, we can look forward to January 2nd.

The Thought That Counts

Here is a glimpse into my Christmas morning experience.

My wondering eyes beheld this extremely large box, wrapped in SpongeBob Santa wrapping paper. Though my brother had been threatening it for some time, I still couldn't believe the enormity of the gift.

I thought of my small little NYC apartment. I wondered where such a large gift could possibly fit. I wondered how I was going to drag it back to the city on the bus. I sighed. I poured myself a large cup of coffee. I ate three (3) cookies. I waited for my turn to open the monstrosity.

And when that time came, I was relieved to discover that the box was full of mostly newspaper, carefully protecting the real prize - this lovely tee-shirt:

Ah, a National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation reference! Classic!

My gift to my brother was similarly heart-felt and sentimental.

Yes, a Washington Redskins Garden Gnome.

'Tis the season to be ironic.