things i've learned since this time last year

 

 

this weekend was a lazy, hazy delicious dream of a break. the only weekend we have free for the next few weeks. there are weddings coming up, the ever anticipated trip to the middle of nowhere for the mount olive pickle festival, and concerts on grass lawns.

but this weekend offered a reprieve from responsibility, and fairly seasonable weather. warm during the days and what i like to call "light sweater weather" in the evenings. it was the commencement of my birthday week, which is always one of the best, best weeks of the year!

this time last year, i was practicing, panting and shaking nervously in anticipation of my master's thesis defense. i was driving an hour away during my lunch break for last-minute speech therapy visits and driving my friends and co-workers crazy by rehearsing my speech aloud every free moment available.

but this year is different, a bit more relaxed. and i've learned some things in the interim.

great things move slow. they take patience and perseverance in measures typically beyond what we consider humanly possible. but bend with it. fall into the wait and find that it, too, has a very specific sort of beauty. what is God saying during this time? we can't add a single second to our life by worrying, and fretting about an event will not spur it to occur any faster.

we all need a phone drawer. a place to drop that beautiful burden of an instrument the second we get home. because the life span of people and puppy dogs is infinitely less than the life span of technology, which will only grow and develop and become more youthful as we benjamin button-it into a more refined state. on the other hand, you've got living, breathing, speaking and barking, flesh and blood dependents who are, for a lack of a prettier phase, dying every day. and as much as i adore instagram for its ability to make me feel like a photographer, and as much as i care about e-mails and even this little blog of mine, i've got to find a balance to counteract the oppression of the screen, and the mindlessness it forces me into. for me, this means allotting one evening a week as screen-free. with the pretty weather and longer days, this is completely do-able.

where your treasure is, there your heart is. and you deem something your treasure by the time you assign to it and the passion with which you approach it. i've learned to choose my treasures better this year, weeding out faux riches for the real gems. but it's a journey, and one i can only wish to travel my whole life through.

so 26, huh? too late for that quarter-life crisis john mayer sung about. or is it? every day is a bit of a crisis, to some degree. a time of danger. but i'm learning how to pack my armor. that counts for something, i suppose.

give us this day

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there are some days when my coffee turning cold too quickly is all it takes to undo me.

yesterday it was a long line at taco bell. monday it was traffic. not stalled, angry traffic, but just the mundane hum of the highway and a gloomy sky.

it's always the litte things. because we know, don't we, that they're never really that little. especially not when they conglomerate and stick to each other and turn into a giant thing. lately, i've become so "of" this world that it's hard to remember i'm really just "in" it.

beacuse this is all so much to take in. the super sized combo for seventy five cents more. the buy one get one free. the movies and the music and the restaurants that cost more than they did five years ago. and i'm a visual learner. the same girl who could stare at a whiteboard for hours and have a ball with an overhead projector screen (the thing i miss most about elementary school), is the same one who now sits on her kitchen window to watch the sunrise. i put hymns in my earbuds and sat out on the side porch this weekend as a storm blew furiously around the yard, twisting the oak  branches around and stirring up mud.

because i'm still learning, you know. and i'm taking this world in, one deep, gulping day at a time.

it hit me while getting ready this morning. while putting on the makeup and the dress and the heels. while chopping the garlic for tonight's chicken and twisting my hair into a side bun.

God gives us our daily bread.

not our daily foie gras or free range chicken. not our daily extra large milkshake or target shopping spree. not our giant movie screen or popcorn with extra butter. we are not entitled to such luxuries. they are there for us, yes, and they can be so beautifully fun.

but when it comes down to it, the bread is all we really need. such simplicity in a world obsessed with anything but is a hard concept to swallow. but i'm convinced nothing goes down easier.

there's a reason restaurants serve bread at the beginning of a meal. it's a little taste of what's to come. an appetizer for the main course.

and such it is in life, too, i suppose.

this old routine

yesterday i swear the air stood still. the walk between the slamming of the car door and the unhinging of the mailbox at the end of the gravel drive was like pushing myself slowly through heavy steam. i pushed and pushed and met an equal resistance and was quite literally out of breath by the time i reached the bills and magazines.

and i opened the door to find robert napping, his work clothes still on and sweat still on his forehead, one arm propped lazily over his head beside the windowframe. and we ate tomato sandwiches and checked e-mail and sang a song at the same time that, for some reason or the other, was in both of our heads.

we saw mama and dad and took a walk around the yard. when the sun started feeling gracious and sunk itself back into the earth, we went outside and talked. and when it finally turned to dark on the old porch we went and sat on the long sofa. i curled up in that old blanket that's neither soft nor warm but wholly mine. and we talked some more until after midnight, dragging ourselves the ten feet to bed, the moon pouring itself through the cracked blinds.

i know some woman closed a big deal yesterday. i know someone got a promotion. someone cut her hair and feels brand new. someone got married and another engaged. a woman gave birth. someone, somewhere, probably had her life changed yesterday and july eighteenth is forever changed.

but we just had this old routine.

and i'd do it again. every second. over and over again. we can make a big moment out of the little ones, you and i.

you don't have to, today.

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here's the thing.

you don't have to make the bed.

you don't have to curl your hair or even put on mascara.

the pilates mat can sit, rolled tightly, in the closet.

along with the stilletos and the kitten heels.

that dish from last night? the one that held the 9 p.m. pasta craving?

it can stay, sticky, in the sink.

the e-mails and facebook chats and texts and missed calls

can stay missed.

it's wednesday, july 11

and you were granted another day.

that's the truth of the moment

and you're worth it, you pretty little thing.

the fourth hit of the snooze button.

the third repeat of that song.

the second helping of chocolate.

and that first cup of coffee.

or wine.

or water.

that look up to the heavens, where sunshine

or clouds

or rain

can pour down your cheeks.

instead of tears.

from clara to frances: a letter

when i read my first lines of neruda poetry, i thought i'd found the reflection of my truest self. i would lie awake in the middle of midnight and write lines in my old leather journal. so pretty were the words and so deep their sentiment that i even named my sweet puppy after the poet.

but then i came across this letter last week. from a woman named clara to my grandmother, frances. written at the height of their womanhood, when they both worked at the u.s. postal service and were living on their on in washington, d.c. truth be told, the letter is a bit gossipy, in the most polite way possible. there are spatterings of "i'm not sure what she told you" and "i think it only fair that you hear this from my side of the fence too."

but a few paragraphs down, clara begins describing her dream life. what truly makes her happy. and though time and space and seventy years separate us, i felt my heart sink to my stomach when i read her thoughts that so mirror my own.

that's the funny thing about being a woman, i suppose. the fashions change (or do they?) and hairstyles go from big to feathered to flat to big again, and technology finds its way, every decade, to sneak into our homes and lives and rearrange the way we do dishes, fold laundry and relax in the afternoons. we are different colors and shapes and personalities. but every so often, we find that in some ways, we are so very similar. perhaps we don't all love living in the country. i know some very fabulous women who make entire cities light up. but that need to communicate--whether by telegraph, typewritten letter, phone call, e-mail or facebook chat, remains.

i'm just glad my grandma had the wherewithal to save such a treasure. little did she know i would unearth it from an old album whose plastic pages had long decayed. and i hope clara, wherever she is, is sitting on a rocking chair looking up at the birds, her head thrown back laughing, her drama resolved.

in defense of lipstick

 for two weeks in march, i didn't wear lipstick.

this may seem trivial to some, but for a girl who relishes in that morning swipe of color, it was...different.

i did it because i read an article in an old allure magazine while sitting in the doctor's office for my second unsuccessful visit to curb my unflinching cold. it was the "guys tell all" article, riddled with countless statistics on what men find attractive, ugly, hot and just plain ridiculous.

a vast majority of them disliked bright lipstick. they found it distracting. messy. bold.

i let the insults linger there, then considered the deep shade of ruby on my lips. did my doctor find it distracting? what did my husband really think? was it too bold for the office? i questioned every bright color i'd ever purchased (always with great excitement). my little red change purse, my arsenal of lip products, stayed in the deep abyss of  my oversized pocketbook. i went to the bathroom and dabbed lightly at the crevices of my mouth.

but i realized something. a little nugget of truth that made me reach for my favorite shade of fuchsia this morning, when the world was asleep and i was puttering around in my robe.

it doesn't matter what they think. it's easy to say, but to digest it took a bit of time. i don't wear it for anyone but myself. because it makes me feel pretty. like my mama. it reminds me of a time when women wore tights and high-waisted skirts and put up their hair in pin curls. it's the working girl's best friend. a way to wake up a face filled with stress, deadlines and no sleep.

and my husband has yet to complain, which makes me think he must be in the 40% of men who like it, or simply don't give a rats tail what's on a woman's lips as long as they are on him, or pursed into a compliment.

so fill those lines with a pretty plum. wear that big red hair bow, those platform heels, that blouse with a million ruffles. do it for you. and if someone happens to like it along the way, well then that's all well and good. but if they don't? then just consider the source and saunter away. and wear it that much brighter next time.

on saying yes

 

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if involves a corner booth, in that pocket of morning before the world awakes, with a hot mug of coffee against your lips, say yes.

if there's a meadow, with wildflowers shin high and queen anne's lace and renegade weeds, on the side of an old county road and no cars for miles and it's time to stretch your legs and he grabs your hand to dance, say yes.

if there is a sliver of sun against the clean carpet, in that spot beneath the living room window, and your dog is stretched out inside it inviting you to lay there and rest, say yes.

if you're leaning against his car and the stars are parading around the ceiling of night and he tells you those three words that every date, phone call and late night movie have slowly, steadily been inching toward, and he asks you back, when you feel it in your gut, say yes.

say yes to sleeping late on saturday when the windows are open and there is nothing on the calendar until supper, to getting on your knees in the dead of night when your household is asleep and asking the Lord for things that escape you in the bustle of the day, to chocolate and red wine and poorly acted movies, to guttural laughs and nights in the kitchen with your sister.

to ignoring the e-mail, homework, deadlines and commitments for an hour and laying on the bed with a pup that will one day walk slow and hobble, not run toward the tennis ball. to sending flowers and snail mail, and driving all day just to see someone for a few hours. to walking on rocks in the ocean, taking too many pictures that only you appreciate, and humming in your cubicle.

say yes to enough of the right, good things, and the nos will reveal themselves in due time. peek their little heads out and remind you, not now, my dear one, not quite yet. you've still got some dancing to do.

not lost, but not quite found

 pablo says: this is fun, but let's get out of the house soon, k?

my throat feels like a thousand tiny daggers are doing a rain dance on my tonsils.

it's gray out and i just want to curl into the nook of the tub and rest my head against the cool ceramic. with the window open above me and the march breeze pouring in through the old screen. the promise of rain this evening. the cool in the air of an approaching storm.

it's a simple cold (with the inevitable sinus drainage, hence the daggers) and i'm not contagious, so i dragged my sleepy body to work today. because there's only so many hours one can watch e! true hollywood story, wife swap, khloe and lamar and the nate berkus show without going crazy. sweet pablo has been a blessing, resting on the cushions above my nook on the couch, reaching his paw down to land on my head as he drifts off to sleep with me.

but mama brought me pink roses from the grocery store yesterday. and the front porch swing is excellent medicine. and there are two uninterrupted days of rest, relaxation and baths on the horizon. so all is not lost.

a mama's duty

because babies haven't graced our lives yet, i like to imagine pablo as my child. this means taking incriminating pictures of him in his rainy day sweater. i like to imagine showing these shots to his future mates, specifically the cat down the street toward which he has shown a particularly romantic interest. it's what mamas (who apparently have too much time on their hands) are for.

tea-se me, please

here's the thing.

i don't much like hot tea.

i try. oh goodness knows, i try.

i have a cute little grandma who carries her own tea bags in her purse, ordering a cup of hot water at restaurants. i have a sweet, calm friend who wraps her hands around a warm mug of fruit-flavored tea during bible study. and then there's my peppy work friend who loves lemon zinger in the mornings.

i haven't honestly given it a fair shake, i don't think. i've had a little green tea, a little black tea, and this morning, when i felt a little sore throat washing over me (dang north carolina weather! hot/cold/hot/cold), i made a big cup of raspberry pomegranate tea.

i was born and raised in the south, and can drink anyone under the table with sweet tea. i want this ardor to carry over into the hot tea realm.

so please, please. share your tea experiences. your recommendations. they're calling for highs in the sixties today and cold rain showers by this weekend. i don't think this sickness is going away anytime soon.

about last night

my dear,

when you told me i was beautiful last night, and i laughed into my glass, it wasn't to offend you. it was because with the lights down low and the television buzzing and midnight settling into my bones, i believed you.