Haiku from the prayer room (& Christmas)

Winking gold lights watch

blue dusk fill, fall and dimly

cover drifted snow.

Minor, picardy

third and humble thyself in

the sight of the Lord.

Jazz harp and bowl

seventh for funk prayer songs

improv is worship

Peace like a river

Joy like a fountain, Love like

oceans in my soul!

I spend the snowed-in weekend in a good place. Good food, good people, good fun and laughs. Perhaps too much sugar - but the homemade toffee was delicious, and I'd never tried Turkish delight before. (P.S. which is good, but not good enough to warrant Edmund's betrayal!)

Christmas day saw numerous guests - I believe there were twelve in all, including the three little kids running around. Fondue, a beautiful fruit plate, and other hors d'oeuvres and wine filled the time before dinner. Dinner - epic. Two roasts: lamb AND beef, both incredible, both tender and tasty. Also mashed potatoes, mashed yams, horseradish (for the lamb), greens & pear salad, pineapple, avocado on the side. And I'm probably forgetting something. It was SO good, and perfectly healthy and safe! For dessert we had the homemade toffee, and Cassi's special chocolate-frosted chocolate quinoa cake. And rhubarb wine.

We laughed so much all day. During dinner, one guest, Christ, got it into his head that we all needed hats. I was sitting between him and Renee, and they both had hats, so he found some purple tissue paper and red ribbon, and made a hat for me. Apparently, it looked like bunny ears. Then he made a red hat for Rebecca out of a napkin, and an orange-and-gold tissue paper hat - nicknamed the "glory" hat - for Jonathan. Then everyone else got hats from Renee's collection. And we wore these random hats the rest of the evening. Strange folk? Fun folk. My kind.

And then, because of the blizzard warning the next day, Christ and I got trapped an extra day in Georgetown. Which meant even more merriment. The kids had wanted a fire on Christmas, so we built one on Sunday instead. As the snow began, Jonathan and Gabe built a fire. Once it got going, the rest of us (minus the two sleeping girls) trooped out to join them. A couple cigars were lit, and a bottle of port and some glasses brought out, and Christ's iPhone provided carol lyrics. Fire and snow and drink and song. We stayed out until the wind picked up and the light died down: welcome blizzard! We laugh in your face!

Snow turns all things beautiful.

Now I am back home - in my home for less than a week more. I must begin packing. There are many things I must do. But I had a wonderful, emotionally restful weekend. Physically restful? Not so much, since the little one claimed me as her care-taker, and I carried her around most of the weekend. Kids are energy-draining. But snow and laughter and fire are energy-giving. As is good food. I am thankful that my first Christmas away from family was that wonderful and fun.

I move soon. Life changes. What is next? I just don't know. But I'm sure it will be good.

25th on the 19th

When Disappointment meets Hope, Hope prevails.
When Disillusionment meets Passion, Passion prevails.


Now that I meet 25, it looks very similar to 24. Or at least to the mature 24. Was I mature? Am I mature? At least more so than I was a year ago, so that ought to count for something, nu? Myself has fewer misunderstandings with Me and I; Me and I still argue, but I thinks Me likes to argue, so that won't ever completely cease. We shall see.

2 + 5 = 7

7 Days in a Week. Flip 25 for 52 weeks in a Year. 52 * 7 = 364 Days. Much can happen - often does happen - in those days. Here's looking forward with expectant uncertainty for whatever will happen in the next 364 Days. Much can change. If this past year is any indication of my life, the increase in amount of change will continue its dramatic climb. Not quite exponential, but on a large order. Zoom, zoom. Roller-coaster up. Rocket launcher, complete with sound, flame, and smoke.

My brain's a little scattered now and here.

Here and now: a little later in the day: my brain's still scattered, but much more happily so. I think the best present I received was seeing a friend who I haven't seen in, what... over a year and a half? It was wonderful.

I decided, as it is my birthday, to dress up, and I wore my still-brand-new little black dress with the fun swirly skirt. And many people at church commented on it. 'Twas encouraging, I must admit. I could dismiss enjoying compliments as shallow or conceited, but really, that's not the case. Such words, when they are given, are tremendously uplifting. I'm in no danger of beginning to dress up all the time just to get people to compliment me, but it's certainly nice when they notice! Now I just need someone to dance with, so I can put the swirly skirt to good use!

Maybe I do feel a little older. Just a wee bit. God has been trying to get me to accept that I am a woman, all grown up, and even in the course of this one day, that has been strengthened in me. I am not a child. I am not only a young adult. I am not a little girl, not matter how lacking in height I am. Rather, I am a woman, a lady.

Hah. That reminds me of high school. Madrigal Dinners - I wish I could remember at least one of my names! Wait. Latin. I picked a good name there.

I am Lady Amadea.

Food & Me

It turns out that I do love food, after all. Especially the preparation. The more from scratch it is, the better I like it. I learned how to turn coconuts and almonds into flour and milk on Tuesday, and made more almond flour & milk today. Soaked almonds are good, I discovered! In the past four days, I have made seven batches of cookies - four of the same kind. I made borsch today (my Ukrainian housemate insists there isn't supposed to be a 't' at the end). I made sourdough pancakes this morning, and they finally - after 4 rounds - turned out perfect. The past couple weeks when I've thrown what I have together, it's turned out tasty and mostly colourful. I think each success builds my enjoyment and desire for more cooking, baking, and food.

Food and I have an interesting relationship. "It's complicated," you might say. It never used to be. Up until a couple years ago, Food and I got along great. I ate what I pleased, baked whenever I felt like it, lackadaisical and worry free. Then came the wrench - gluten. Now, mind you, I am SO much better off when I don't eat gluten that I have NO desire to ever, EVER eat it again. The concept of eating gluten-free doesn't bother me. In fact, it makes me happy. Even dairy free (this past year) isn't hard in itself (except for cheese...). BUT. The complication is this: when my diet is that restricted, I eat alone. I cook alone, I eat alone, I don't bake because I can't eat it all. I can't just join the dinner party for kicks and giggles. I can, theoretically, plan to prepare a meal for myself and others, but getting others to actually BE here when it's dinner time, or breakfast time, is rather tricky. A couple months ago I realized that I was actually avoiding food, and it freaked me out. I love food, don't I? So I sat down and thought about it. As well as I could see it, the problem was the alone-ness of it all. I had gotten so tired of eating alone that I just wouldn't eat rather than have to sit down by myself in an empty kitchen. Oh, dear.

Apparently, I just want to share. So when my Faithgroup has a potluck, I jump at making dessert. Then do it again, and again... and enjoy the making better each time, and even if I don't eat very much of what I made, watching others enjoy it makes me love it. Then, when they come to me before we eat to double-check ingredients with me, oh! it makes me smile! They remember! They think about gluten when they're cooking, and lo! and behold! I can eat with them! And it makes all the difference in the world. Food has always been with people, you see. My family ate dinner together every night. I grew up with church and music department potlucks, and whenever friends gathered, we ate and drank tea. So when Food and I get locked in a room together with no one else around, we don't get along too well. I don't know how to relate to Food, and he just looks at me. Awkward silence ensues. But if we get outside that room, and promenade down to the park, and sit around tables at the cafe, and converse and interact with other people, suddenly we get along much better. More or less depending on the people, of course, but it's like one's relationship with Food is not meant to be kept to oneself. Food must be shared, like that adorable puppy everyone stops to pet.

Ah, Food. I like you, I really do. We just need to learn to communicate. I like you, want you, and need you, so do you think we can work this out? I hope so.

Sunlight

Today was warm.

I got up, ate, walked to the shop to get my car back, and drove home with the sunroof open. Then I sat on the back porch in a tank top, read, then fetched a piece of wood and the wood-working knives from the basement... and made a dirk. It's just the thing to stick in a boot. And, again, it is unintentionally very well-balanced. I just made it so it looked right! And lo, and behold! the balance is beautiful, and it spins quickly and smoothly. Apparently, I have found my gifting. Now if only I could make a living making wooden knives...

Now, of course, as the light fades, the cold returns. Not that the house even warmed up in the first place, so now, one again, I am chilly. This will I say for clouds: they keep things a little warmer!

I have found myself unexpectedly in desperate straits. Alack, for miscommunications! The result of this one is that I am broke. Quite literally. And have bills to pay this coming week, yet no money with which to pay them. What shall I do? Look for work. But how to find something that will get me money by Friday... Sigh. Thus far, God has provided. I trust He will continue to do so. In the meantime, I shall try not to fret, give thanks instead, and be responsible in looking for employment.

And enjoy the fact that my car's repair was cheap! Relatively, of course, but I knew that something was wrong with the transmission, so it could have been a LOT. But it was only leaking transmission fluid lines, and replacing those is FAR cheaper than rebuilding transmission! And now Emily is purring away like she used to, and it was strange how happy I was to get her back. I believe I am fond of my blue car.

Oh, but the sun felt good!

Apart.

The clouds are molten in the east.

After a stretch of rain, the wind broke the warm clouds apart in time for the sun to lay a few fingers on the remaining golden leaves before it sank down. Damp tree-fallen carpets cover sidewalks and backyards. Children and cars splash as they pass, and the earth rejoices.

November has rolled in. The month of final harvests and thankfulness drops between Halloween and December like a warm cookie. It is the time to revel in colour, dance in rain, walk in sun, eat soup, drink hot mulled cider, cozy on couches with friends, read, write, sing, pull out the sweaters, and give thanks. And give thanks. And give thanks.

I get to see some of my family this month. Not enough, but still good. This place is my home, but my family is not in it, leaving sibling and parent shaped gaps. Sometimes I think fondly of the days where you stayed in the town of your youth, visited your parents for Sunday dinner, watched your siblings grow up, fall in love, start families... A smaller world, perhaps, more than perhaps, but a coherent world. My world is still split, and always will be. This is normal now, for families to scatter and depend on technology to maintain contact. My family does not know what I look like right now - how my hair is cut, how well my skin is healing, what I'm wearing, that my ears are pierced for the first time in my life. And I do not know what they look like - how long my brother's beard is, how much weight my older sister has gained back, how many more wrinkles and grey hairs my parents have.

So I give thanks. I count my blessings. I rejoice in how much change has been worked in me these past 6 months. My digestion is improving! My skin is healing! I have gotten past my condescension towards dresses. I am growing and learning so much. I have good friends, who listen and advise and pray for me. I am not alone. I don't feel alone. I feel safe, for some reason, safe and secure. I am home - I am where I am supposed to be - and I am blessed. So I rejoice. It was warm and beautiful today. My brother comes tomorrow. A flock of birds just flew past the window, black wings against a clearing sky.

So I rejoice.

October

I do love autumn.

The wind and cold starry nights paint trees in red and yellow. Drafts down the stairs no longer trickle sweat down my back. I can brew a mug of hot tea, wrap my hands around its body, and breathe in the steam. When we bake bread or coffee cake or fruit crisp, it makes the kitchen more pleasant, rather than sweltering. I lounge under a blanket to read, and a kitten or two jumps up onto the couch and curls up on my lap, and we share body heat and yawns. Cold sky-breaths skitter fallen leaves in crackly patterns across the concrete. The sweaters I wrap around my body remind me why I like clothing so much - it's fuzzy, soft, textured, warm - and I dream of capes and cloaks and robes of violet and blue edged with silver patterns. I look at the wooden furniture I have in my room, in this house, and touch it gently.

Autumn is the season of richness. Of contrasting sky, earth, grass, trees, trees, leaves, outside, inside, the wild weather, the warm bed. The season of soups, baking, sauces, tea. The season of cozy living rooms inhabited by blanketed, book-reading folk. Poetry, the scratching of pen on paper, letters. Music, strings, chant, madrigals, Italian. (Oh, Italy!)

Oh, do not call this season "fall"! Call it Autumn, for that is its name. Fall is something else entirely, something darkening, something disobedient, disappointing, painful. Fall is what a little child does before its legs and eyes and brain can coordinate walking. Fall is down, downward, faster and faster, and if you're high enough up when you start you die before you land. This time is not Fall. It is Autumn. This life is Autumn.

We are Autumn.

Friends

Much driving have I done in the past 29 hours. Over 6 hours, in fact. At least 5 of which were spent between here and Moodus, CT.  It's strange, after all these years without a car, to have one and be spending so much time driving it. For once, I was the ride to a retreat! For once, I drove to visit a friend! For once, I dropped someone off at the train station.  My world is a different shape, now.

I've never done such a quick there-and-back-again trip before.  Is a simple evening worth a 2.5 hour drive each way?  Even without the mist coiling from the lake in the early morning slant-light, yes, it is worthwhile.  Even without homemade squash soup, cinnamon raisin mochi, and good water, it is worthwhile.  To see a friend, much can be done.  Especially when the friend is spending the next month north of Inverness, far away and unseeable. 

Each time I (begin to) get more connected with people, I notice my valuation of connection increases.  As I reconnect with older friends, and connect with new ones, I find myself both wanting to forge even more new connections and do everything I can to maintain and strengthen the ones I already have.  "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, the other gold."  What am I, who am I, without people to know and be known by?

We are like redwoods.  Unless our roots are tangled up with all those around us, the harsh, hard winter winds can force us down, tear us apart.  But if our roots are indeed connected, no storm can harm any of us. 

On the drive up from Connecticut, my friend and I talked about the nature of friendships, particularly those that are quick and deep and remain just as deep no matter how much time elapses between bouts of communication.  These are the friends you can see once a year, and have the most incredible time with, and consider, even after months of silence, a good friend.  Of course, these are also the friends with whom you have shared your heart, the ones who have heard your joys and your woes, who are somehow like enough in mind or personality or some inexplicable quality that you just jive with each other.  Once you've experienced these friendships, it's awfully difficult to be satisfied with anything else.  They set a standard.  Can I call you my friend if, after 3 months, we'd struggle to carry on a conversation?  I don't think so. An acquaintance perhaps, or something yet unnamed in between acquaintance and friend.  

Then there are those people who aren't your friends simply because you've never really had the chance of a good conversation; if you had that conversation, you would be friends.  I've got those - or at least I think I do.  I don't know if they think the same about me, but there are definitely people that I think I'd love as friends whom I haven't had (or made?) the opportunity to actually get to know.  How does one go about cultivating these?  "Hey, I had a class with you once, and we never really hung out, but I think we'd be great friends, can we hang out now, several years later?"  ummm... I wouldn't be convinced by that unless I had the same inkling, so why would they be convinced?  Perhaps I should just give it a try.  Or perhaps I should focus on the beginning friendships and maturing friendships I've got right now and not overload myself with interacting with really cool interesting people.

For now, though, I shall curl up with a book for a little while, then sleep.  This plan at least I have no questions about.

Delight (Re: Geo.Town Pt 4)

"I'd rather be in the band."

Now I am!  Out of the past 4 weeks, I've played at church 3 of them.  It's been delightful!  Each time, somehow, better than the last.  Each set wonderful, each band fun, and I am surprised by the ease with which I slip into playing not as performance but as prayer.

And this last time, I was hidden behind the electric guitarist and a monitor, so I got to smile hugely and make funny faces at the baby in the front row grinning and giggling at me.  Oh, joy!

We also had balloons to celebrate the church's 3 year anniversary.  After, the electric guitarist handed me a bunch of them, saying, "these are for you, 'cause you played so well tonight."  Actually, I think the word "awesome" was in there somewhere.  (I'm no good at remembering exact dialogue...)  And later, when I explained to the worship leader where I'd gotten the balloons, he said "you totally deserve them!"  ::little happy dance while grinning broadly::  So now I have pretty blue and white balloons!  The heat has de-floated them, but they're still big and beautiful.

It's odd, how, after so much time away, I get SO MUCH positive feedback from people!  From the worship leaders, the other band members, random other people in the church.  This is such a beautiful thing for me, who tends to be too hard on myself and assume non-appreciation.  They'll probably never know how much their simple words mean to me - and they don't need to know - but wow, it just blows my mind.  Delight.

And I painted my room last week; three walls are pale sunshine yellow, the other beautiful blue.  It looks like deep water, like a portal into another world.  Dawn Treader-esque.  This is the first time I've ever been able to paint my own room, and it turned out better than I dreamed.  Delight again!

Mantis

A praying mantis just bumped into me and paused.  It was beige.  It was probably aiming for the light behind me rather than my shoulder.  I took it outside and closed the door.

I realize their name is a classic misnomer, but there is some irony in one finding its way to me.  I'm working on a CV for an application to a study pilgrimage, and find that most of my college extra-curricular involvement had something to do with prayer.  Or worship.  Or both. 

Or study. Or teaching.  A pattern, perhaps?  Seems to be. I sit down to write my statement of interest, and realize exactly how much critical thought and spiritual exercise overlap and undergird each other in my life.  Would I care so much about academic exploration and the search for meaning in what we people create if I didn't believe in God?  Would I believe so strongly in His unlimited creativity and personality if I didn't see the fascinating variety and variation in human experience and expression?  Would I be happy pursuing trails of implication and nuance in literature if I believed nothing at all mattered or meant anything?  Could I persuade myself to interpret words if there were no Word whose utterances gave interpretation to my life?  If I were faced with Void, Chaos, and Meaninglessness, and nothing besides, I think I would turn away from intellectual pursuits in favor of frivolity, since the continual search for meaning in a meaningless world leads to what else besides despair? And entertainment is easier to cope with and enjoy than despair.

Perhaps I don't believe in Order in the strictest, most limited and rigid sense, but rather in an organic, fluid sense of connection.  Not Order, but Connectedness?  And really, things only make sense in connection with other things.  I spent a whole semester pondering this. Pondering my ponderings.  We understand Absence because of Presence, Sound because of Silence, Dark because of Light, Hunger because of Satisfaction, and et cetera. (And I am becoming German in my capitalization of important Nouns.)

But how do I pack my fascination with Goodness and its intrinsic connection with Critical Thought, Virtue with Intellectual Engagement, Belief with Interpretation, all into a meagre 300 words?  This is always the difficulty: to make concise that which is, by its very nature, branching as a spider web and just as difficult to see in the dim light of 1.5 pages.

Too bad I can't just write: if you understand the praying mantis, you will understand me and let me go on your study pilgrimage.  So find a mantis and study her.

Intention vs. Action

I was going to write about my current dilemma, but then I got distracted with all the pretty pictures and colours and changed my blog's look instead.  Ooh, shiny!  Now it is later than I expected, and I should sleep rather than worry or extrapolate or extemporize about my confusion.

So, do I try for grad school next fall, or do I wait until '12?  That is the question.  All my points and sub-points, doubts and (more)certainties, shall not find print now.  Do I go through the whole (expensive!) rigmarole of applying now, or do I postpone it another year?  

Later, I will decide.

Splinter

I got a splinter in my finger today.  Not wood - some white, thin, semi-flexible material that reminded me of tiny fish bones.  I noticed when it jabbed itself into my flesh, looked down, and saw the white half inch spear.  Enough remained outside me for my nails to grasp it and pull.  

Apparently, a small piece broke off and remained.  I noticed a couple hours ago, when pressure on my finger precipitated pain.  For a moment, I thought the bit of white was just skin, but it wasn't.  I could've left it there, to be pushed out of my skin whenever my finger felt like rejecting it.  But in the meantime, any touch to that part of my finger would've hurt.  So I grabbed a pin, started poking... and realized that I am still a child.

Upstairs I trotted, pin in hand, hunting a flame and a person.  The flame presented as a lighter.  The person as Bekah.  I sat, not watching, teeth clenched, and she dug that nasty white thing out of my finger.  Voila!  Ouch.  

Years ago, I sat, clenching my other fist, not looking, trying but failing to keep silent, as my father dug a sterilized pin into my finger, my hand, my arm, wherever the splinter had lodged that time.  It always hurt.  I could never watch.  I could never do it myself.  My childhood memories of the pain inflame it beyond what it deserved, so that I remember splinters hurting SO SO MUCH! when really it probably wasn't that bad.  But here's the thing: no matter how much pain the removal caused, no matter if blood was drawn or not, after the splinter was gone, there was a deep relief.  My finger, after a moment clouded the memory of the fire shooting from the tip of that pin, no longer hurt.

My finger doesn't hurt anymore.  There's something beautiful and powerful in someone else causing you pain to remove a source of constant pain so that there can be no pain.  The hurt that heals.  The cut that cleans.  For the greater good?  Life is pain, Highness.  But we can't deal with these things on our own.  There are things we balk at.  I cannot inflict much physical pain on myself, even if I know it's necessary.  Maybe I can force myself to do other things - like join a crowd of strangers and socialize, or keep running when my lungs ache, or stop freaking out and relax and trust that the water will hold me and it's not very deep anyway so I can always touch the ground.  But even those things I make myself do - like talk, run, float - are done with the help and encouragement of other people.  They tell me I can do it, give me advice - take slow, even breaths.  And before I know it, the splinter's gone.  Thank you, Bekah.  And I can swim.  Thank you, Lizzi.  And I can run for the first time in 5 years.  Thank you, Brad.  And I can talk to people I don't know.  Thank you, Annery.

Thank you, my crazy little family.

Geo.town -Caches, pt4

I went to a wedding today. It's the first one I've been to since... summer of 2006.  Four years.  The wedding itself was beautiful.  Merely receiving the invitation was an honour and encouragement, and I loved the service.

And the reception was fine, too - until the dancing started.

This is always the story, no?

People dance, I don't.  They get in a pack, and jump and twist and do all kinds of other things and call it dancing, and I sit. It's always awkward, and I'm not exactly fond of being the odd one out, but that's the way it is. And sometimes it's not so bad. I wasn't the only one not dancing, so I had company. 

But then I was asked why I wasn't dancing: did I think it wasn't moral?

Wait.

That's what people think, isn't it?  If a young person, all dressed up, isn't dancing, it must be because they think it's immoral, and are judging all the people who are.  And there you have it.  THIS is why I hate dancing - not because it offends me, but because my choice to not participate leads others to decide (or assume) that I am offended.  

Do I think dancing is immoral?  Very few activities, in themselves, can be considered truly immoral.  Drinking?  It depends.  Criticism?  Also depends.  Even sex, that big red flag word, in itself is far from immoral.  The morality of activities is situational - it depends on the when, how, and why.  When/where is it being done?  How?  In what manner?  Why?  For what reason?  What is the person's attitude or intention?  Is someone drinking a glass of wine with their dinner, or are they guzzling whiskey every night until they get sick or pass out? If someone is dancing in a night club, and their manner and intention is focused on the purpose of titillation, of arousal, then no, I'm not ok with that.  But a bunch of young people rocking out?  Who I am to judge?  So I don't.

I also don't join them.  But that's because I don't like to.  I don't enjoy "dancing" in that crazy group.  Don't get me wrong - I feel the beat and rhythm perfectly fine, and far better than many who love dancing - I'm just not free or happy doing it.  So I don't.  

But I hate not dancing, because I get this vibe of judgment - towards me.  How ironic is that?  The one sitting down feels judged.  I feel measured and found wanting, boxed up, labelled, and set aside.  I feel evaluated and type-cast: no fun, not worth spending time with.  And this hurts.  People trying to persuade me to dance only makes it worse, because when you beg me to come out and dance I hear that I'm really only worth while as a person and friend if I join.  I feel judged.  Even if people aren't consciously thinking "oh, she's sitting down, she must be a boring person," they're still, somewhere, judging me that way.  

Now, if I actually knew how to dance - swing, foxtrot, merengue and the like - and the music allowed, and someone else knew how, I'd LOVE to dance.  It's the I'm-just-going-to-stand-up-there-and-move-however-I-feel-and-call-it-dancing that I don't like.  I hate pretending.  If I can't dance, then I can't dance, and I'm not going to fake otherwise.  I hate deception.  

I've also had unpleasant reactions and responses to modern-day party dancing.  No matter what people declare about the innocence of it, I've watched enough to know that it's not always (read: not inherently) innocent.  I've seen the way some guys watch the girls shake it.  I've heard comments.  And I do NOT want someone looking at me that way, or saying those kinds of things about and to me.  Now, perhaps church people are safe.  But it's not a risk I'm willing to take.  I could dance if no one could see me, but not for all the world to see.

Yet.  My simple stillness is not understood.  I am not understood.  And once again I see the gaping chasm between me and normal people, and I am at a loss how to bridge it.  I can speak with individuals about it, and then they will understand at least some, but what to do about everyone else?  Yeah, just don't worry about what they think.  I've heard that piece of advice before.  It's not that easy.  And people wonder why I'm not more social... it's because I feel judged and looked down upon by them because I don't act the way they do.  But I need to be more social.  I need (and want) to learn how to begin and build relationships with people, and this is terribly difficult if the people you want to befriend think you think that they act immorally and are judging them.  And I can't just begin everything with a disclaimer of "I don't dance, but it doesn't bother me that you do, so don't judge me because you think I'm judging you."

Argle.  I'd rather be in the band.

Geo.town -Caches, pt3

I've been making rockin' smoothies.  One, for dessert, strawberries mostly, with almond milk and ground cacao.  This morning, kiwi, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, honey, almond milk, pomegranate/mango juice, lime punch.  It's nice to have a blender that doesn't leak.

I just found out about a trip (study/pilgrimage) to Italy this January.  I want to go SO badly.  If I a)get accepted, and b)can afford airfare, I'm going.  Oh yes.  Food issues notwithstanding.  Eating gluten/casein free in Italy?  It's possible, right?  Not authentic Italian, but it can be done.  Oh, I hope.

The poor dog is lonely.  I've been gone so much this week, and she's SO excited when I get home, but I don't want to sit and pet her for 10 minutes - I want to do things, or just sit, or read, or wash dishes, or eat.  This is part of why I'm not inclined to get a pet.  Too many unexpected things happen, and I'd like to maintain freedom a bit longer.

My good friend & former roommate Emily unexpectedly showed up Wednesday.  Much to my excitement - I hadn't thought I'd see her before she left the country for India.  But she came.  It has been a year and a half (?) since I last saw her, and I'm loving the added craziness.  And she brought one of her cousins - whose sister I know - so I can add yet one more of the Winter clan that I've met.  And tomorrow I (we) see another friend who's disappearing soon for PA for the summer.  Then I go to a wedding.  Then...

Life was much simpler last summer.  I needed that simplicity.  I was a fissioning atom by graduation, with way too many new pieces to hold them coherently.  This year I'm more whole, so I don't mind that my world is complexifying.  I'm not moving.  I'm not suddenly meeting TONS OF NEW PEOPLE.  I'm not trying to silence enough voices in brain to hear at least one of them.  I'm not exhausted.  Actually, I am.  But it's more of a physical exhaustion due to DOING so much, on so little sleep, rather than complete emotional and mental and physical and spiritual exhaustion.  Much different.

Which translation of Dante's Divine Comedy is the best?  How does the Louis Biancolli version measure up? I want to read the rest of it.  And I must decide which of the multiple "vintage" copies at the bookstore to get.

Now the age-old question: to read, to eat, to sleep?

Geo.town -Caches Pt2

(lying in my bed at 11.55pm, this took form)

I said I would sing

only what I knew - 

then found I could not sing,

for I knew

nothing.

Except.

That I am hungry.

And hunger makes

a dismal song.

Perhaps once hunger is fully known,

and past,

I shall begin to know

something else,

and be able to

sing.

But until then,

I will open my mouth

silently,

waiting to be filled.

Geo.town -Caches, pt1

I have discovered the sport of setting flat-bottomed glasses on top of ants.  If I had an endless supply of them, there would be glasses all over the counters and floors of this house, each with a differently configured half-squished ant beneath. I also managed to trap four ants - all caught at different times - without losing any - under a glass vase.  There are too many ants here, and they are too big to crunch by hand or foot without feeling the squish. 

The grinning three-legged dog sits in the grass as thunder and wind roll a storm towards us.  It's gentle thunder this time; this morning I awoke to loud thunder and a frightened dog under my bed. There was a storm and a dog in the dream I was dreaming.  This storm isn't storming yet. And it's threat is disappointingly mild-mannered.

The garden out back needs tending.  It takes a brave soul to go outside when there are clouds; huge vampire mosquitoes attack except in direct sunlight.  Or heavy rain, I assume.  But I don't have spare clothes to get soaked so I can pull up grass.  And there are certain plants I don't recognize; they look like weeds, but are growing nicely enough I shan't pull them out until I am certain they deserve it.  I'd rather not despoil my friends' garden.

A child ( I assume ) in a house nearby is learning  to play "The Entertainers" on the piano.  They keep repeating the main theme, with slight variations, over and over.  I heard it Wednesday, too, around the same time.  It catches and snags.

I like rambly empty houses.  Children's toys, books, and jackets stored on the peripheries.  My little gable room on one end, the other house/dog sitter's room way on the other, split by space such that we can both make our own rackets and the other would barely know.  Creaking wooden stair half-turn up to my curtained doorway, where I have a bed-room, tiny entry space, and a bath-room. Even I can easily bang my head on the ceiling in the entry.  I like the smallness of it, how few things I have with me, and find myself plotting how I could live in a space that tiny, when eventually I have to live cheaply in a city somewhere.  What would I keep? discard? how would I furnish?  And it's all worked out in my head.  I would pretend to be Jo March; I'd live in a garret; I'd read and write; I'd eat poorly, and drink tea even though it gives me the jitters; I'd have a tiny, eclectic wardrobe; I'd be a hermit except for classes, and literary events; and eventually I'd meet my Professer Bhaer and we'd get married and my (imaginary) great-aunt would bequeath me her large rambly house in the country, and we'd run a school/orphanage, and I'd be very busy and very happy, and we'd eat as much as possible from our own garden and farm - no wheat, rye or barley, thank you very much! we don't poison our children - and I'd keep writing; I'd teach at a nearby college, and host tea and poetry nights, during which the students would happily play with the children then we'd all and laugh and read and eat and drink until the fireflies flickered goodnight.

I am finally learning to dream.

Poison

Sigh.

My body hurts, aches with a dull knotted insistent pain. My eyes are sensitive to light, and focusing is more difficult than normal. My sleep is unsettled, and I wake feeling unrested, regardless of how long I "slept." I feel like there's a fog in my head, a dull edge scraping everything, and I can't think straight or focus fully. My short-term memory is fizzling away again. My skin is angry, and it shows on my face. My GI tract is gurgley and painful, and I've essentially lost my appetite for appetite, because it's so unpleasant to digest right now. Not to mention that no matter what I eat, I feel like I'm eating wrong, like my body's not getting what it needs regardless. I'm emotionally on edge, super sensitive and worryable. And I don't know how to deal with people - I don't have the energy or clarity to handle social interactions, so all I feel like doing is hiding, but I don't have the concentration to read (mostly - except for that one book, from which, unfortunately, pieces are already missing in my memory) so I stick a mindless movie in my computer or just sit on my bed staring into space and muttering to myself.

Add all this up? Yup, I'm poisoned. I think it's been the slow boil - trace and ubertrace amounts adding up over the past few weeks to the point where my body is just plain ticked and I feel awful. I don't think it's been any of my food, per se - I think everything I've bought and eaten has been safe. I'm getting super careful about that. I think it's the crumbs all over my kitchen, the things on the burners and stovetops, my dishes getting used, or washed by someone who may or may not have used the correct sponge (and who's to say - perhaps my sponge got used on the normal dishes and is now contaminating everything it touches?!) or didn't wash their hands after touching bread or other dirty dishes, or maybe the sink needs thorough cleaning, as does the stove, or the bags of bread sitting in our hallways spewing crumbs, and of course the table, oh, and anything with gluten MUST stay away from my food in the fridge! It could be, and probably is, any number of things, all added together to equal badness 10,000. Stupid gluten, how I hate thee!

I love this house. I REALLY want to keep living here. But if I can't work out a way to keep safe, I'll have to move. I can't live here if I'll be poisoned all the time. I want it to not matter, I want people to not have to learn new habits, to learn to be more careful, to be able to do and eat and make whatever they want and not have to worry about keeping it away from me & my dishes or having to clean up immediately so that I don't have to avoid the kitchen. I hate this. I hate the inconvenience. I hate how anti-social it is, how picky, how authoritative I'm afraid I'll have to be to get it through people's heads. BUT. (There's always a but.) I hate how I feel even more. I can feel it destroying me. Literally. I hate what gluten does to me enough that I'll do whatever needs to be done to avoid it.

Even if that means leaving all my friends here and finding a new place to live.

Footsteps on the Roof

Rain. Now that the ides of March approach, the skies deluge us with cold rain. It feels like winter to me, like mid-January back in the redwoods, chill and damp. But we don't have a wood fire here to keep us warm. I think rain is beautiful. Yes, it's grey, but it's far better than the grey when it's cloudy and windy and threatening snow without delivering. Rain washes everything, makes it shine under the street lights, makes the colors deeper, richer, more saturated. Drainage here is wretched, though, so huge puddles collect all over the roads. I love the sound. I love hearing rain parade on my car, volume variant depending on wind gusts. I love sitting in church hearing the little feet on the roof. It's like the angels were dancing a hoe-down tonight. And I love lying in my bed with the winding rushing by, flattening sheets of water against the walls and windows, splattering from the gutters to the pavement, and soothing cacophony of precipitation. Snow is silent, and wonderful in its way of silencing everything else, too. Rain doesn't muffle; it drowns out. I can't hear the noises of the roads because the rain's sound is louder. And I'd far rather hear the rain. So I smile.

I made chocolate chip coconut cookie muffins the yesterday. I wanted sweets, didn't have any, decided I wanted chocolate chip cookies, thought I should add shredded coconut, and realized I probably shouldn't use the one cookie sheet in this house, since it's got stuff burnt onto it from who knows what glutenous things. All I have are bread pans and muffin tins. So I used the muffin tin to keep my cookies poison-free. They turned out reasonably well, considering that I literally threw a bunch of ingredients in a bowl and mixed it up, adding enough water so that it seemed a decent consistency. No recipe, not even as a guideline. But they taste good, aren't dry, aren't flat, and although a bit floury for cookies, are good heated up as dessert muffins. I'm going to get good at this. I hope.

I don't quite feel ready for this week. It shall be very busy, very energy-consuming. My body is still weary, and my mind a bit fuzzy. But the week must be lived regardless. And I want to do it all. I'm not going to be occupied with things I hate, or even dislike. They are challenging things, new things, old things, draining things, but not unpleasant. I'm sure it will squoosh by too quickly to keep track, but that's alright. I don't need to keep track. I don't need to keep tabs on how well every single little thing goes. I need to do what must be done - what I have chosen to make a responsibility - and take care of myself, eat well, sleep enough, relax, and see how I turn up at the other end. No worrying permitted past this point. I won't do FINE (freaked-out, insecure, neurotic, emotional), I will do well. With hope and persistence.

Rain sing me to sleep.

Speak, Sunshine

I just sat on my back porch in the sun (warm!) for almost an hour and a half. Then came inside and made a quesadilla with (gluten-free!) whole-grain wrap, (casein-free!) cheddar cheese, red pepper and oregano. Tasty. I still don't trust the weather not to revert back to its frozen ways, but today is gorgeous and warm. I may have actually gotten a little color from it, and my body thoroughly unchilled. It felt good.

Two of the girls from work and I went to see Sherlock Holmes at the downtown theater last night. There's a doorman, footmen, and someone playing the piano in the lobby. The theater itself is old, and wide, with a balcony (not open, alas) and crazy Rococo-Greek-Mycenaean-Victorian gold and white decor. The screen up front is slightly smaller than in a normal movie theater - or perhaps it just seems that way because it's smaller then the stage, and bordered by draping curtains. I love the atmosphere in that place. And the movie was fun. Good action, pretty explosions, witty repartee, great character interactions, and curious science. I wasn't expecting anything in particular, and was pleased. I must say that although I imagined a slightly more emaciated Sherlock with a thin, bony nose, Robert Downey's got the feel down wonderfully. I believe him as a Sherlock. And the Watson-Holmes interactions were brilliant and hilarious and real. 'Twas a satisfactorily spent 8 dollars.

Thursday I made muffins. I don't know what came over me... I just started pulling all my nearly-empty bags of flour mixes out of the cupboard and mixing them together. I used four (maybe five) different flour mixes, plus a hot cereal mix, so my muffins probably contained a good 8 different grains and starches. Plus a little salt, brown sugar, xanthan gum, baking soda, molasses, agave nectar, almond milk, ground flax seed & water (instead of egg)... They were gluten-free, vegan muffins, completely off-the-cuff. Fortunately I've made muffins enough times to know the approximate general consistency of muffin batter, so I added enough water to match that, plus a little to offset the expected absorption by the hot cereal mix. The result? Wonderfully textured and moistured muffins, with a hearty flavor. They're actually really good. I'll never be able to duplicate them, but I am encouraged all the same - I can make muffins without a recipe! Little things...

Like going to bed before midnight the past two nights... And sleeping past 6am this morning. This whole sleep schedule thing is still screwed up, and my body is not pleased with my general lack of sound sleep. One bonus to my church's new service time is: I can sleep in Sunday morning! I just need to not stay up correspondingly late the night before. Alack and alas.

I find myself wanting to find some books on semiotics or linguistics to read; strike that, to study. It almost feels like I've got a bunch of puzzle pieces spread out before me, but it's an extraordinarily difficult puzzle, and there are a few rules that I don't know yet, a few key hints that have eluded me. I don't expect semantics or semiotics or philosophy or linguistic analysis or anything to just put all the pieces together for me, but I want to know more. Words fascinate me; how words go together to make language, to follow and form communication, catches my attention. I remember this coming up in literary criticism; I remember connecting it with philosophy. Attempts to explain where and how things came from are interesting to me. It's funny, I like philosophy not because I expect answers, but because I like how it contains pieces of answers, which, when connected with something else, make the picture of why and where and how a little more clear. I like process. I recognize it as both an underpinning reality and a formulative necessity. Things change, they develop, they shift and grow. Nothing here is static. There is a flow, but it's such a complicated flow that I can't just sit on my porch and trace it all out. I want to connect theoretical physics with language. They are related, I'm convinced of that; I just want to figure out how. Patterns. Patterns of chaos, chaos of patterns.

Sigh. I miss school. But recognize that our society's patterns have rendered it impossible to avoid the stultifying, wearying grind of work without already being in possession of vast quantities of money. I can't afford school. And work renders me less capable of thinking deeply or concertedly. It dulls me, tires me, makes me prefer escape or distraction to engagement and concentration. I wish it weren't like this, but it is.

I need to write more poetry.

Wind

I wonder if I can manage to consistently post every Saturday? Begin speculation...

A couple nights ago, it stormed here. Unfortunately, it didn't blizzard (unlike farther south, where they are buried). There was rain, and the winds blasted against our cheap house, making strange noises as they swooshed through the cracks around the windows, and shaking the entire building with their violence. Growing up in a place where wind-and-rain storms were a normal part of winter, I LOVED it. Prayed that no trees would fall on our house or our cars, then sat in my room relishing the sound of the rain and the noise of the wind. Some of my housemates were frantic, scared to be alone, worried that terrible things would happen. The lights started flicking in and out around 11pm. I lit a candle in my room, unplugged my clock so it wouldn't blink at me, and waited for the power to disappear for good. It didn't. It's been strange to spend an entire (so far) winter with power; back home, we'd lose it at least a couple times. I love the silence, the change in rhythm, carrying around candles, heating food on the wood-stove... but we don't have wood-stove here, and the lights never went out for more than a few seconds. The house never shook so hard it cracked or screamed. Mild, powerful, wonderful, relaxing. I slept better that night than I have in a long time.

Of course, some houses in the area were broken by trees. Branches lay all over the roads the next morning. Many places lost power. I drove through an unlit traffic light.People were freaked out. But no floods, no blankets of snow, no tragedies.

Chile suffered an earthquake. Tsunamis wave their way through the Pacific. New York lies buried in white. Los Angeles dog-paddles through the water. But Boston? A few downed trees, and that's it. Why do I have to be in the most boring geographical and meteorological place? I know death and destruction are not desirable; I don't actually want to live in such tragedies. But I like crazy weather. I love racing winds, heavy rain, piles of snow, noisy hail; I relish cozying under blankets while the storm rages outside; I enjoy splashes through the puddles after, playing in the snow, smelling the freshness in the air. We often talk about how unpredictable Boston's weather is, and that's true: it is spastic. Wait a minute and it'll change... but it's not extreme enough for me.

Maybe I just feel this way because it's the end of February - and no matter how many times they predicted "heavy snow" this month, we've gotten very little. In fact, February's primary weather characteristics have been simply freezing with a windchill of somewhere in the teens or twenties (F). This I do not like. It is just not interesting. Not to mention miserable any time you aren't inside. What's the point of being outdoors if you'll just freeze? At least with snow or rain there's an excuse. Sigh.

At least Thursday night was interesting.

(So, Zeus is the storm-bringer, right? And Poseidon controls the earth and sea? I'd rather make Zeus angry, and keep Poseidon happy. Earthquakes and tsunamis are much more frightening than mere wind and rain. Of course, I've never been in a hurrican or tornado, but the sky isn't ever stable to begin with. The earth is - when what is supposed to be solid shakes beneath you, what can you trust? The winds are always roving, pushing, pulling; that's what they do, and I don't mind. Maybe if I had wings and could fly I'd be more concerned. Granted, lightning can start fires, but only if things are dry enough... Perhaps this deserves more thought, perhaps not. But my first thought is that they were silly to think Zeus is more powerful...)

A Cry in the Night

After being sick most of the week, I am still too drained to stand and clean, but I'm not tired enough to sleep. So, rather than help everyone cook and clean in preparation for the fundraiser tonight, I have retreated to my room.

Last night, I was awakened around 5am by a child crying. And crying. The sound tore my heart. I think I know who it was, too, and there's really nothing I can do for him or his family. I couldn't go back to sleep without processing it. It was loud, and consistent, but not the cry of physical pain or fear. It had an edge of anger. A child, determinedly crying, probably without tears, making a statement. But saying what? Maybe "I hate my life, and you've made it this way, so I hate you, so hear this. This is my bitterness and pain, in your face, ruining your sleep." Or it could have been desperation "I can't think of anything else that will get your attention, maybe make you listen to me, than this, so hear me crying and realize, please, that I'm miserable and need to to understand me and support me." Despair, desperation, anger.

Someone intelligent, quick, clever, but unappreciated and unsupported by his family or neighborhood; someone small and on the edges, who survives by wit and bravado and luck and who knows what else. We hear the family yelling sometimes, the parents screaming at each other, at him, and hear his tearful replies - there's nothing he says that ever makes them stop. During the summer, sometimes he'd come over here after, asking for one of the guys (who made friends with him), just looking for someone to affirm him, to hang out, listen, actual treat him like a person instead of an outcast. And it breaks my heart - this kid has so much potential. He's brighter than any of the kids I've met in this neighborhood. He notices things, and puts two and two together.

But. He's miserable. And that crying last night wasn't someone hiding tears in their pillow. It was loud enough and prolonged enough to wake me. I wish I could change that family; teach the parents to stop screaming at their kids and start loving and encouraging them instead; teach the kids to not yell at their parents, but respect (but how to respect parents like that?) and honor and serve them. I wish I could make them understand this kid's got potential, but they're ruining his chances of getting anywhere, of doing anything, of ever becoming whole and confident. He's angry, I know he is. Part of him hates them, but part of him can't stand hating them. He wants - and needs - someone to love and someone to be loved by, and underneath all the layers of wounds, scars, and armor, he knows that, even if he can't or wouldn't actually say that.

And I, living just around the corner, don't know how to respond. I don't understand: I have a wonderful family, loving parents and encouraging siblings. I never felt like I belonged, per se, but I was never actively or vocally shunned or put down. I wasn't consistently told I was stupid or useless, or any of the other names thrown his way. I went to a good elementary school, small, with caring teachers. We never wanted for anything; we ate well, were clothed, had many things we desired but didn't need. I didn't have to become iron-clad and cold just to survive. Looking at his family - at this whole neighborhood - I realize how insignificant my own problems and hurts and insecurities were. And are. I know, at the end of the day, if I screw up beyond repair, my family will take me in and love me. If he screws up too badly, he'll probably get kicked out and/or verbally and physically abused. And, relatively speaking, he's not as badly off as others around here, I'm sure. But I'm around the corner, in a different world, of a different generation and worldview, so all I can do is wish, and dream, and pray.

Maybe someday his life will change, and he won't cry like that in the middle of the night. But not today.

...homesick

I just read Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. I hadn't read it in years, and its effect has been quite simple: now I am homesick.

I miss the trees, the Pacific, the mountains. I miss my house, the yard, the rock walls, my room. I miss my family: my parents, both sisters, brother. I changed my desktop to a picture of the house reflected in the pond Dad made. And, looking at it, I remember the chill and damp and sharpness of the air as I stood at the edge of the yard, taking a picture of the proof that the strange shape Dad made the pond in is brilliance rather than sloppiness or insanity. I remember the thin, bright winter sunlight on the redwoods. The drops of dew on the grass where the sun never burned it off, and the sound my feet made in the damp. I miss the warmth of a fire. The laughter of my family. The seriousness and faith of our prayers. The joy and intelligence of our games. The piano. The thick carpet. The cool marble. The smell of our Douglas fir Christmas tree, and the shimmer of tinsel in the sun. (Oh! the scents of home! Cities reek compared to the spice and depth of that redwood clearing. Even the ocean out there breathes life and refreshing and salt. It makes your nose tingle and your body smile.)

Once a year is not enough to satisfy my love for my family. Yes, they have telephones. But there's something special about us all (or at least most) gathered in one place. I'm sure when we kids were little, it wasn't so beautiful. We argued, there were tensions, of course. But as each year passes, it gets better. We are all growing up, but not growing apart.

It's approaching Valentine's Day. I've never celebrated this holiday; I've expressed my dislike for it many times and to many people. But this year, I wish I could have a Valentine's Day - with my family.

But I can't. I'm here in Massachusetts, my brother's in Indiana, my little sister is in Texas, and my older sister and parents are in California. Too far apart. So I'll try to un-homesick myself by remembering them, being thankful for them, talking to them... and hope this sadness passes.

Sigh. *crunch*

I like salt. I shut the bag to stop my nibbling. (Utz Ripples have a LOT of salt. Yum.)

I'm probably one of the only people who procrastinates reading Harry Potter. Book Six has been sitting in my room for nearly three months, and it's logically next on my reading mix, but I've been putting off starting it for at least two days. Mostly because... I'm not sure. Because.

My greatest "adventure" this week was walking 15 minutes in the cold early morning. With windchill, below zero, Fahrenheit. Little Miss Temperate Climate immersed in the extreme. Why am I living here? Or, why aren't I more warm-blooded?

Life isn't particularly exciting. Perhaps it's better this way. It's not steady - there are definitely ups and downs - the sine wave is not approaching zero - but it's not wild or erratic. The lows aren't the deepest depths, nor the highs beyond the stratosphere. Now I get to learn to manage, to find stability, within a life that is not consistent. To balance the more up with the more down, to somehow stay near enough the center that the pull of gravity doesn't accelerate me beyond what I can endure. Perhaps just seeing the center is the key - I don't have to be there to recognize it, or to turn towards it. Maybe it's more about orientation than exact location. Not that location doesn't matter, but when things are simultaneously this changeable and this always the same, the orientation, the turn, becomes more important. Like with glasses - if you're near-sighted or far-sighted, the location, the distance from your face, matters. But once the location is somewhat fixed, if you have astigmatism (like I do), the the orientation, the exact angle of the lens to your eye, becomes critical. Just a slight twist to the frames wrecks the angle, and blurs your vision. They may be in the right place, but they're wrong all the same. Now I get to learn how to be the flower on the windowsill, that turns to face the sun, until this becomes such a habit that if it's moved somewhere else, it still follows the light.

Maybe I avoid Harry Potter because I expect it to get between me and the light. Not that I'd go so far as to accuse the books of being evil - they have darkness in them, but also redemption. But they're fiction, they're fantasy, they AREN'T REAL, and right now the sky is so gloomy it's hard to find the sun to face it, and maybe Harry Potter will cast more shadows, or shine a false light, and just cause more uncertainty. The book won't give me answers, that's for sure. If anything, they'll inspire a longing for a different life, a different reality; a dissatisfaction with this life, with reality. That's my problem with fiction. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE reading, especially fiction. I studied literature for a reason. But. If I already feel itchy in this skin, reading about a fascinating other possible skin makes me try to escape this skin, makes me want to pretend I'm in the other skin, makes putting up with the itch even less possible. If a book will make me want a different life - ie, want the life in the book - I put my guard up. This is the life I have. I know I don't really want to go to Hogwarts. I don't really want to be a wizard. I don't really want to use a word or flip of the wand to cook, or wash dishes, or clean my room. I want more direct, tactile responsibility for what I do. I don't want to be able to use one word to kill someone, or torture them, or flip them upside down, or anything else. Words can already to so much harm; I prefer them left up to interpretation rather than become concrete forces.

I want to live here. Now. In the freezing cold, clutching a mug of tea, with my socked and slippered feet tucked under me, or even slipping on ice when I walk into town. In a house full of people, a cat, and an occasional visiting puppy. Feeling my hands drying and cracking because of the dust and dirt of books and money. Frying three eggs for breakfast every morning. Eating potato chips because I'm craving salt. And putting off reading Harry Potter #6 because I don't want to become dissatisfied with here. I'm just a person, a mere muggle, with still-lacking social abilities, annoying food intolerances, very bad eyesight, not enough patience, and too many interpersonal confusions. But I'd rather be me than anyone in fiction. And I'd rather be here than anywhere else, too. There. That's a declaration: I'd rather be me than anyone else, and I'd rather be here than anywhere else.

Maybe now that I've cleared that up, I can make dinner and curl up with the Half-Blood Prince. Who knows?

An Amherst Adventure

Today I had a meeting in Amherst.

Which is about 2 and 1/2 hours away, unless traffic is bad.

My normal ride couldn't go out this time, so last night I scrambled to find a car to drive. Finally found one. Then the other person who was going decided not to because he didn't feel well.

So I woke at 6.15 this morning, and by 7.40 was on the road. By myself. Looking towards a 2+ car ride, alone, to a place I'd never driven to before, looking not-forward to potential terrible Boston traffic. And with no music. Just me, the car, the road rumbling under the tires, and the sound of my own voice as a talked and sang to myself and to God in an attempt to keep awake and alert. Oh, and I had my chocolate mate in its travel mug for the very slight caffeine boost.

I made it down 128/95 just fine, then unintentionally got off at the exit for Rt 2A instead of Rt 2. Somewhere in the back of my head I knew they joined up at some point, and seemed to recall taking 2A once before to avoid traffic. Turns out, Rt 2A between 95 and Rt 2 is rather pretty, passing the Minuteman park stuff. There also is very little traffic on it.

I made it easily enough onto Rt 2 from 2A, and began the longest leg of the trip - all the way out to 202. As I traveled westward, traffic diminished, until, just past Fitchburg, at mile marker 93, there was one car behind and to the side of me, and none others in sight on my side of the road. I was roaring down the fast lane, when

BLAP!

A sound between a pop! and a blam! and a suddenly listing car, joined with a strange rhythmic noise alerted me to: a flat tire. My first ever.

It proved easy enough to maneuver the car to the outside bank, turn on my hazards, and double check that, yes, indeed, the right front tire was quite flat and floppy. I slid back into the driver's seat, took a deep breath, and called my friends who were also driving west to the same meeting. Thankfully, they were only a few miles ahead of me, so they promised to turn around and come help me change the tire - after having me check to make sure there was a spare tire. (There was, thankfully.)

I relaxed in my seat, resolving to wait for my friends before doing anything else, alone on the side of the road, hazards still flashing. The sun warmed my face. Then, the unexpected happened: someone pulled over! And climbed out of their car, saying they'd be glad to help change the tire - it'd only take a minute! Is it sad that I have come to expect New Englanders to never do this sort of thing? Many cars had passed before the one stopped. But one did stop! It blew my mind, and made my day!

Needless to say, my friends arrived just as the kind stranger was beginning to loosen the bolts. The tire was switched, and we drove to the nearest gas station to give it a little more air (it was a bit low). Then I followed my friends the rest of the way to Amherst, no problems, and laughing and grinning to myself.

After our 5 hour meeting/lunch/catching up, I climbed back into the car - still just me, myself, and I - and drove east. I left Amherst around 4, which meant a high risk of crazy rush-hour traffic once back near Boston. But -

- again, it was good. I found 2A, thereby dodging part of Rt 2, and part of 128/95. And hit 95N right around 6 o'clock. Not good, right? Except... traffic toodled along around the speed limit almost the entire way up 95 and 128. Unbelievable! Yes, there were many much cars. Far too many for my comfort. Yes, it slowed occasionally. But mostly, it practically flew. Red taillights stretching in rows in front of me, actually moving at a good speed! I was home before 6.30.

I'm still in shock. Mostly because I'm so unaccustomed to driving with so many other cars on the road. And all those lights coming the other way gave me a headache. And stupid Boston roads have nearly invisible white dashed lines. I don't normally drive so fast so much. I've never driven 5 hours by myself before. I got up early. I'm tired. I talked a LOT to keep myself awake. And made up a bunch of little songs, none of which I'm likely to remember. I drank more caffeine than I ever do in one day, and kept my eyes open SO MUCH! The way back I was practically quivering with concentration, constantly telling myself I wasn't worried or freaked out, every muscle and nerve in my body tense and squealing.

But I'm home. Quite safe. Quite tired. Quite sure if I ever do that again, I want a smaller car. Jasper is curled up on my bed. Tomorrow I can sleep in. I need to make a phone call. I need to eat something more substantial for dinner than cereal. Even though I've watched (and helped a little), I honestly don't think I could change a tire by myself. My head knows how, but my body isn't strong enough. Sigh. Thank God for friends and good people!