I'm in the final days of living in my apartment. Over the past three days, I've watched the last few years of my life walk slowly out of my apartment. The chairs, bookcases, tables that I have accumulated over the years have become a snapshot of the past few months of my life. I am blessed that I have friends who care so much about me and have taken so many of these things in trust. I am comforted knowing I can always come home to the things I love the most.
Tonight I sent into that trust a number of things. And tonight I sat at my trusty little table that I've had since 1999 and that my parents had for many years before that with my best friend. We looked around my empty apt, that will become emptier each day, and assessed this year.
Things and people have been lost, in the past 12 months. Friends lost, whose deaths I didn't know whether I would be able to pull myself out from. My job. My apartment. What I first thought was my dignity. And as I sit here in this almost empty apartment, I realize the things I felt were lost, never were. I have this group of people who have risen together to ensure that the things I love have a home, that I have a home. That I can leave this city, but roots still remain. I have a group of gals who celebrate, versus dwell on the past, but who let me love a few material things and promise to keep them safe. Who know that there is history attached to this apartment and the contents of it.
I look around tonight and I am sad. As I sit at my little table that I love so much I am sad that there is an end, but I also know that it signifies a beginning. In my ideal world, I would never have to leave this perch--a place where I have counseled and listened to my gals, where they have held me in my most infinite grief, where I've had endless calls with my sister, mother, brother, cousin and so many more, where HB and I have watched as a snow-globe raged around us. But everything comes to an end, and it's about how you deal with that.
In my little apartment where life has unfolded so significantly and so beautifully, I am sad to leave it, but I know this only means another door opens.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Saturday, January 02, 2010
2010
Happy New Year, everyone.
As suspected, not much has changed. But some things have been reaffirmed. In this new year, I've been reminded of a few important things. One is that jobs come and go, security can fade, but friends never seem to walk away.
New years eve was originally going to be spent with my kitties in my apartment with a six-dollar bottle of champagne, Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper. At the last minute, plans changed, and tickets were purchased for a party at the faux speakeasy The Gibson in D.C. with three other friends. We dressed all sparkly and fun to not necessarily ring in the new year, but to usher the old out with good drinks, good company, and no fuzzy animals to make me feel more depressed than ever.
It was a great time. Lots of laughter, lots of good cocktails, much revelry, and most importantly, great great friends. It was a great way to ring in a new year.
You know, I realized something recently. Most notably after the death of my friend. Each of us are individually blessed to have people. Our people. My people. Some may have many, others few, but we have people. I have a wide group of people. I have my D.C. people, my V.T people, my family people, my U.V.A. people, my Peace Corps people, my Leahy people. I have people who are collectively weaving a safety net for me, who won't guarantee it will hold, but who will do everything in their power to try and make it. I have people who are willing to wait on me, and believe in what I do. My people don't discourage my dreams. They cheer loudly, they push me, they link arms and support me.
I have this buoy of love that allows me to become a similar buoy for strangers. It is the greatest gift I could imagine. I know I talk a lot about friends on this site, but when you're in the trenches you realize who fortunate you are. And I am rich with friends.
And I love them all. Happy New Years, all.
As suspected, not much has changed. But some things have been reaffirmed. In this new year, I've been reminded of a few important things. One is that jobs come and go, security can fade, but friends never seem to walk away.
New years eve was originally going to be spent with my kitties in my apartment with a six-dollar bottle of champagne, Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper. At the last minute, plans changed, and tickets were purchased for a party at the faux speakeasy The Gibson in D.C. with three other friends. We dressed all sparkly and fun to not necessarily ring in the new year, but to usher the old out with good drinks, good company, and no fuzzy animals to make me feel more depressed than ever.
It was a great time. Lots of laughter, lots of good cocktails, much revelry, and most importantly, great great friends. It was a great way to ring in a new year.
You know, I realized something recently. Most notably after the death of my friend. Each of us are individually blessed to have people. Our people. My people. Some may have many, others few, but we have people. I have a wide group of people. I have my D.C. people, my V.T people, my family people, my U.V.A. people, my Peace Corps people, my Leahy people. I have people who are collectively weaving a safety net for me, who won't guarantee it will hold, but who will do everything in their power to try and make it. I have people who are willing to wait on me, and believe in what I do. My people don't discourage my dreams. They cheer loudly, they push me, they link arms and support me.
I have this buoy of love that allows me to become a similar buoy for strangers. It is the greatest gift I could imagine. I know I talk a lot about friends on this site, but when you're in the trenches you realize who fortunate you are. And I am rich with friends.
And I love them all. Happy New Years, all.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Ushuring in the New Year
There is so much anticipation in the New Year. We all want January First to mean something great for all of us. A new resolution, a new goal, a new life. We think that on this day, the whole world is in front of us, we can reinvent, re-imagine and re-do a year, four years, a decade or a life of what has been dealt us.
But in reality, we can't. Instead, we look back with a skewed view of everything good and everything bad we've done in the past, and make inflated and unrealistic goals of what we want to accomplish in the new year. Why do I think that come some random day I will wake up and have some vision about my life that I had never had before? Is it all mental? Do I need simply to believe more in the myth of it all?
In this new year, here's what I've learned:
1) Life is really unpredictable. Even when it seems predictable, it's not. As Heidi Klum says, one day you're in, and the next day...you're out. We can all be out at any time. Don't look down on those who've not had the luck you have had. You never know when you'll be in the same position.
2) It's ok to be vulnerable, and to question yourself. Until I hit North Carolina for Christmas, I basically wept every day for one reason or another, all of them stemming from the same thing. I have one great friend who has listened to the song below with me for hours. It's ok for me to say that I am sad and scared and I do not know what will happen next. And I listen to this for comfort, for some reason.
3) It's ok to rely on family. We all have them, and they're all flawed in some way, but at the end of the day, you can curl up in a fetal position and know you'll be surrounded by some sort of amazing love. And family comes in a lot of ways. It's biological, but it's also the pillars who stand, stoic and concerned in your life.
Most of all, I've learned you get this one great chance in the world. And during that roll of the dice we all succeed and fail and struggle and rage against the things that seem either arbitrary, or entitled or unfair. And there's a lot of uncertainty. And it's scary, unfair and it makes you want to punch someone sometimes. But it's ours, it's alive, it's life.
And so we live. With trepidation, yes. But with purpose. And what scares me is that I am still unclear of my own purpose. I suppose I'll find it soon....
Happy New Year, loves.
But in reality, we can't. Instead, we look back with a skewed view of everything good and everything bad we've done in the past, and make inflated and unrealistic goals of what we want to accomplish in the new year. Why do I think that come some random day I will wake up and have some vision about my life that I had never had before? Is it all mental? Do I need simply to believe more in the myth of it all?
In this new year, here's what I've learned:
1) Life is really unpredictable. Even when it seems predictable, it's not. As Heidi Klum says, one day you're in, and the next day...you're out. We can all be out at any time. Don't look down on those who've not had the luck you have had. You never know when you'll be in the same position.
2) It's ok to be vulnerable, and to question yourself. Until I hit North Carolina for Christmas, I basically wept every day for one reason or another, all of them stemming from the same thing. I have one great friend who has listened to the song below with me for hours. It's ok for me to say that I am sad and scared and I do not know what will happen next. And I listen to this for comfort, for some reason.
3) It's ok to rely on family. We all have them, and they're all flawed in some way, but at the end of the day, you can curl up in a fetal position and know you'll be surrounded by some sort of amazing love. And family comes in a lot of ways. It's biological, but it's also the pillars who stand, stoic and concerned in your life.
Most of all, I've learned you get this one great chance in the world. And during that roll of the dice we all succeed and fail and struggle and rage against the things that seem either arbitrary, or entitled or unfair. And there's a lot of uncertainty. And it's scary, unfair and it makes you want to punch someone sometimes. But it's ours, it's alive, it's life.
And so we live. With trepidation, yes. But with purpose. And what scares me is that I am still unclear of my own purpose. I suppose I'll find it soon....
Happy New Year, loves.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Power of Two
We used to lay out on my parent's driveway, holding hands, looking at the stars, wondering where we would be ten years down the road. We shared ambition and heartache, teen angst, teen love and the uncertainty of the future. We would pull my parent's speakers out by the windows, open the door to the porch to let the music seep out, and listen to hours of the Indigo Girls while contemplating our own course, our own map, laid out in the stars. We would talk and laugh for hours, drinking canned Miller Lite, he smoking cigarettes that I procured for him.
We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.
He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.
We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.
We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.
After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.
We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.
He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.
He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.
Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.
He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.
And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.
He will always be in my heart.
We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.
He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.
We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.
We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.
After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.
We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.
He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.
He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.
Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.
He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.
And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.
He will always be in my heart.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Trying Times
There are times in life that we all go through. They are not fun. They test us to the very core of who we are. Whether it's work or life or love, they hit us now and then. They are our own personal rapids that we have to navigate. Hopefully we do it with grace and skill, but there are times when we flail, hoping for one more minute of breath before we go under.
I seem to have found myself on one of those paths recently. I think of myself in a one man kayak, with very little experience in this line of sport, gritting my teeth while listening to my fans on the bank of the river. Sometimes loudly, other times muted by the sound of the rushing water in my ears. As I gasp for breath, I am comforted by the cheers and support and love, knowing that I am an island and I have to navigate how to return to shore largely solo.
I take my paddle, as futile as it is, and burn into the rapids, knowing that I am nothing against the stronger will that prevails, but also knowing that while I cannot beat them, I can return to an upright position, flustered, but together, with a smile on my face, even if that smile is forced and uncomfortable. I find myself, more often than not, feeling the pull of the current, pulling so hard that all I want to do is give into this stronger current than I could possible ever beat.
But I don't. Because in those brief instances of light and sound, I hear and see the forces that are stronger than the current of which I'm battling. I see flashes of HB who will be my life vest until the end of my days, and feel the necklace the beautiful JDK gave me. I feel the arms of LJD surrounding me, with the smokey kisses that left me so fulfilled and so longing this week. Whenever I go under I feel SG and CB and MI and EA and AW and JC grabbing me for dear life. And most of all, I see WED, Jr. telling me he is proud of me, and wishing he could grab my chin and tell me how he believes in me. I hear CFD telling me I'll always have a place with him and that he loves me. I see KM and JM loving me from afar and I am more than the rapids that take me.
Often times these rapids make me think less of myself. They rip me apart and make me wish I was either 5 years old again or ten years down the road so I know what my furture holds. They do not, ever, make me respect them. I could never respect a river so cold and unforgiving and lacking in such humanity that it would put someone through this trial.
I feel the glorious love of my longest and closest friend, EAS, and suddenly, in the glory of this support, I can be upright. But I still struggle to get to where I am supposed to be. At times, the rapids make me weep looking at a shore that seems so unattainable, but I know where I want to be, so I will paddle diligently in that direction.
And I know I will find the shore.
I seem to have found myself on one of those paths recently. I think of myself in a one man kayak, with very little experience in this line of sport, gritting my teeth while listening to my fans on the bank of the river. Sometimes loudly, other times muted by the sound of the rushing water in my ears. As I gasp for breath, I am comforted by the cheers and support and love, knowing that I am an island and I have to navigate how to return to shore largely solo.
I take my paddle, as futile as it is, and burn into the rapids, knowing that I am nothing against the stronger will that prevails, but also knowing that while I cannot beat them, I can return to an upright position, flustered, but together, with a smile on my face, even if that smile is forced and uncomfortable. I find myself, more often than not, feeling the pull of the current, pulling so hard that all I want to do is give into this stronger current than I could possible ever beat.
But I don't. Because in those brief instances of light and sound, I hear and see the forces that are stronger than the current of which I'm battling. I see flashes of HB who will be my life vest until the end of my days, and feel the necklace the beautiful JDK gave me. I feel the arms of LJD surrounding me, with the smokey kisses that left me so fulfilled and so longing this week. Whenever I go under I feel SG and CB and MI and EA and AW and JC grabbing me for dear life. And most of all, I see WED, Jr. telling me he is proud of me, and wishing he could grab my chin and tell me how he believes in me. I hear CFD telling me I'll always have a place with him and that he loves me. I see KM and JM loving me from afar and I am more than the rapids that take me.
Often times these rapids make me think less of myself. They rip me apart and make me wish I was either 5 years old again or ten years down the road so I know what my furture holds. They do not, ever, make me respect them. I could never respect a river so cold and unforgiving and lacking in such humanity that it would put someone through this trial.
I feel the glorious love of my longest and closest friend, EAS, and suddenly, in the glory of this support, I can be upright. But I still struggle to get to where I am supposed to be. At times, the rapids make me weep looking at a shore that seems so unattainable, but I know where I want to be, so I will paddle diligently in that direction.
And I know I will find the shore.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A Tribute
In 1995, I was a junior in high school at the Northfield Mount Hermon School in western Massachusetts. I spent four years immersed in one of the most fantastic environments for education. I lived with my teachers and friends in a place where there was never a lack of encouragement and support.
We had choices in the classes that we took, choices that extended beyond what language we decided to study, and we had limited choices in the teachers who taught the subjects we were most drawn to. One of the classes where there was little or no choice was English class. At the start of each year we would tear into our schedules with anticipation to see who we would be spending the next year of the academic year with in English class. Some teachers were infamous for their English classes. One of those women was Audrey Sheats.
Audrey was known as being tough. Really tough. And not just in the assignments she gave, but in a tough love kind of way. I remember my heart sinking when I opened my schedule on an otherwise perfect September afternoon at registration to see that it was with Audrey that I would spend the next year of English class with. Thankfully, my roommate and best friend Erin was also placed in her class so I knew I would have solace in at least her presence.
The first book Audrey assigned was The Sound and The Fury. The first assignment was merely chapter one. Sa-weet, I thought, chapter one? That's it? How can she possibly be as bad as everyone says? But I was young and naive and had never read any Faulkner, let alone a book like The Sound and The Fury.
Walking into her class that first day I saw a group of faces who were equally as confused as I. What, on earth, was that chapter about? And didn't she know we were juniors in high school and not English lit majors in college???? I began to get the sinking feeling that I was in for a year of..well...hell.
How delightfully wrong I was. Audrey lived up to her reputation of being remarkably difficult in terms of how she stretched and exercised our brains. An hour in her class was exhausting, but over the course of the first weeks of the semester, I realized just how lucky I was to be part of this experience. She was hard because she knew just what 16 year old brains are capable of when given the right coaxing. She was hard because she lived and breathed and loved the books she chose. We meandered through the Sound and the Fury, A Yellow Raft on Blue Water and myriad other titles she chose for us that year. Over spring break, we chose our own book to read and do an independent study for. I chose Love in the Time of Cholera, mostly because of her suggestion to me. Gabriel Garcia Marquez continues to be one of my favorite authors to this day.
I found myself, over the course of the year, looking forward to class with Audrey. I knew never to arrive unprepared or I would face the wrath of her stern verbal lashings. Toward the end of the year, when students were deciding whether to apply for some of the AP classes NMH offered, Audrey approached me and asked about my plans for AP English. I remember looking down and saying I had not really thought about it, but didn't think I would get in. Her eyes lit up and she took my hand and told me how wrong I was. That it was in Louise Schwingle's AP English class the following year that she saw me. I lacked confidence in those days, but she reached me. She believed in me, and she told me that. She said it would be a waste of a year if I did not try.
Lo and behold, it was in Louise's class where I found myself the following September. Just as Audrey has envisioned. And it was another breath taking year of a class with another woman who I've come to realize meant to much in my continued education. When I sat for the AP exam toward the end of my senior year, I wrote my essay on Love in the Time of Cholera and scored a 5 on the exam, all thanks to Audrey.
I read, with a very heavy heart, this morning that Audrey passed away this past January. It gave me great pause and allowed me a chance to reflect on the four years I spent at NMH, the people who have continued to influence me, and the profound loss her passing is on the community. Audrey was tough and passionate and caring and intellectual and supportive. She inspired confidence in me and she will be missed.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friends
We get lost in life. We get lost easily. In work, in relationships, in the grind. We also have those rare nights when we're reminded of just how fantastic life is. We surround ourselves in all of those things that are meant to be fulfilling--everything that makes life...life.
In these hard economic times, we forget the simple things. The beauty of spring, the sun on our faces, coming home after a day of doc review to cats, who, may or may not, love us unconditionally.
Most importantly, we sometimes forget the power of laughter, and friendship, and love.
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I've held on to friends from most phases of growing up. Facebook makes it easier, but the true friends are those who you make an effort to see, to connect with on a basis that exists beyond the world of the internets.
One of my favorite people from law school is back in D.C. this weekend, and we had the opportunity to bring a group of folks together, some of whom I've not seen since graduation. And for the second time in a week, I found myself sitting, surrounded by some of the most astoundingly brilliant people I know, laughing. Good and hard. Hard like a rain that comes after a drought. Hard to the point of tears. Hard to the point of reminding yourself that you are alive.
There is nothing more healing than laughter, particularly that that comes from the heart. And there is nothing more conducive to that than sitting with people who just understand. They understand that we're lucky to have jobs, but hate the jobs we're in. Who appreciate the humor in immoral clients when we were promised that we would never work for immoral people again. Who, at the very core, understand the inner struggle of wanting to make a name for ourselves, but also crave those dusty lands that exist in Kenya, Afghanistan, Darfur and beyond. Who support when they don't even know just how supportive they're being.
Life is good. But it is hard. We struggle individually with things that go unsaid. Family, loans, unemployment, fear of being unemployed, fear of not knowing of this is where we're meant to land.
But collectively, we laugh. And support.
Tonight, I looked up at my group of friends who had gathered, and was touched, and thrilled and giddy in knowing that these people, this fabulous group of people, were mine. Not in a possessive sense, but in a comforting sense. We closed the restaurant down, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and we moved on, jovial, without having the day to day questions running through our minds.
Life can be uncertain, and it, right now, is quite shaky. Most of us wake up unsure of what the next answer will be. But the comfort, the great hope, the overwhelming joy exists in knowing that we are part of a group of people who get it.
I am blessed with the people with whom I call my friends. And I know whatever comes down the line, I will always have them.
In these hard economic times, we forget the simple things. The beauty of spring, the sun on our faces, coming home after a day of doc review to cats, who, may or may not, love us unconditionally.
Most importantly, we sometimes forget the power of laughter, and friendship, and love.
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I've held on to friends from most phases of growing up. Facebook makes it easier, but the true friends are those who you make an effort to see, to connect with on a basis that exists beyond the world of the internets.
One of my favorite people from law school is back in D.C. this weekend, and we had the opportunity to bring a group of folks together, some of whom I've not seen since graduation. And for the second time in a week, I found myself sitting, surrounded by some of the most astoundingly brilliant people I know, laughing. Good and hard. Hard like a rain that comes after a drought. Hard to the point of tears. Hard to the point of reminding yourself that you are alive.
There is nothing more healing than laughter, particularly that that comes from the heart. And there is nothing more conducive to that than sitting with people who just understand. They understand that we're lucky to have jobs, but hate the jobs we're in. Who appreciate the humor in immoral clients when we were promised that we would never work for immoral people again. Who, at the very core, understand the inner struggle of wanting to make a name for ourselves, but also crave those dusty lands that exist in Kenya, Afghanistan, Darfur and beyond. Who support when they don't even know just how supportive they're being.
Life is good. But it is hard. We struggle individually with things that go unsaid. Family, loans, unemployment, fear of being unemployed, fear of not knowing of this is where we're meant to land.
But collectively, we laugh. And support.
Tonight, I looked up at my group of friends who had gathered, and was touched, and thrilled and giddy in knowing that these people, this fabulous group of people, were mine. Not in a possessive sense, but in a comforting sense. We closed the restaurant down, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and we moved on, jovial, without having the day to day questions running through our minds.
Life can be uncertain, and it, right now, is quite shaky. Most of us wake up unsure of what the next answer will be. But the comfort, the great hope, the overwhelming joy exists in knowing that we are part of a group of people who get it.
I am blessed with the people with whom I call my friends. And I know whatever comes down the line, I will always have them.
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