"You're in every single part of me. I hope that you know."

- Agent Fresco, "Eyes of a Cloud Catcher"

My trip to Iceland was amazing in so many ways, but one of the experiences that has settled deep in my squishy little heart was the Agent Fresco show at the Blue Lagoon. Anne and I had paid extra to go to this fancy off-venue show to see a great band, eat a catered lunch, and then go soak in the lagoon. I knew several Agent Fresco songs, including "Eyes of a Cloud Catcher," but I guess I just hadn't paid very close attention to the lyrics. Arnór Dan introduced the song by saying that he'd written it about the experience of being at his father's side when he died of cancer. He said that the song is about celebrating life -- his dad's life now that he is gone, and that we are still alive.

And then they started playing and it took an act of tremendous strength for me not to curl up on the floor and bawl.

Since I've been back, I've been somewhat obsessed with this song. I've also been having a really rough time back home with stress at work, all kinds of tension within my derby league, friends experiencing some rough stuff, and so much bleakness in the world (it feels more than ever like we are living the prologue to a dystopian novel). Plus, it's cold and dark. And here comes the first Christmas of my life without my grandma. My first Christmas as an orphan.

And as I approach these holidays feeling so lost and alone, I keep hearing Arnór Dan singing, "You're in every single part of me. I hope that you know."

It's true. The family I have loved and lost are present in my speech patterns and mannerisms and my desire to reach out and do good this time of year. In my desire to, despite the pain I'm in myself, show gratitude for the little life I get to live and all the beautiful things that make it worth getting out of bed every day.

I am lucky to be reasonably healthy, to live in a warm and safe place, to have people who love me both near and far. I'm lucky I got to spend a week in a magical place I've always wanted to visit. And, as challenging as my job is lately, I'm lucky to be recognized for my hard work (and the prizes for being named employee of the month are awfully entertaining in and of themselves). 

I'm lucky my grandparents invested the money they worked hard to earn as an electrician and factory worker so that I could have a little extra this Christmas to share with people who are having an even harder holiday than me. And that, more than anything, has helped me feel better. (Oh how I hope I have made them proud.)

Enchanted

I'm still in close contact with my high school journalism teacher, who is one of my top five favorite people on the planet. About a dozen years ago, she gave me a copy of the book Stargirl, because she said the eponymous character reminded her of me. It's one of the best compliments I've ever received. (It's funny how, in the ensuing years, I have unconsciously adopted more of Stargirl's traits.)

There's a line in the book that offhandedly mentions that Iceland has these government-recognized enchanted places. Ever since then, I've wanted to go to Iceland.

And now, I can finally say I've been there. I can say that I got to see the Northern Lights and the light from the Imagine Peace Tower from a boat out in Reykjavik Harbor. I can say that I rode a bus through the no man's land between the North American and European tectonic plates. I can say that I watched a hot spring erupt just before visiting a double-decker waterfall. I can say that I hugged a couple of Icelandic musicians. I can say that I saw 22 bands in 4 days. I can say that I reffed a Roller Derby Iceland practice. I can say that I soaked in the Blue Lagoon. I can say that I rode a fuzzy Icelandic horse in absolutely freezing weather and got to see several of those "enchanted places" while I was at it. I can say that I visited almost every museum in Reykjavik and enjoyed the hell out of all the public sculpture in the city. I can say it was amazing and I'd love to go back.

Just a few of the more fun or picturesque moments:

The church with the name I couldn't say if my life depended on it.

Having a bit of fun at the National Museum of Iceland.

View through a window at the National Museum of Iceland.

Just a fun fountain.

Harpa, the concert hall where we saw a whole lot of bands perform.

Reykjavik harbor

Lost in Reykjavik, but at least the view was pretty.

Fun statue at the sculpture museum. I like that you can see the rainbow faintly in the background.

On our way to Thingvellir National Park.

Thingvellir National Park

Thingvellir National Park

Thingvellir National Park

Strokkur hot spring erupting

Gullfoss waterfall

The Blue Lagoon

Reykjavik from the top of Perlan

My favorite art exhibit, and one of the most enjoyable parts of the trip:

"Keep Hope Alive"

- William Goldman, Introduction to the 25th Anniversary Edition of The Princess Bride

I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Insomnia has plagued me my whole life. I often cite the story my mother told about how when I was born I stayed awake so long that the doctors in the hospital told her they wanted to give me Valium and she refused as evidence that I was born this way. (Oddly enough, Valium is one of few things that reliably works to knock me out.)

In general, though, the insomnia hasn’t been horrible the last few years. Yes, there have been nights (even work nights) where I’ve stayed up into the wee hours of the morning. Usually that has more to do with a poorly-timed nap earlier in the day or staying up to read “just one more chapter” too many times or to watch “just one more episode” of the latest show I’m watching on Netflix. But not the last week or so. It’s been bad. Really, really bad. And the insomnia was one of the reasons (the things causing the insomnia were many of the other reasons) I finally called my old therapist to make an appointment to start seeing her again.

I saw her Monday for the first time in about two and a half years. She gave me a lot to think about. And although the session did wonders for the knots my stomach had tied itself into, it only made the insomnia worse.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I picked up the book I’d been reading and just didn’t manage to put it down until I was done with it…at 5:30 in the morning. The dawn was already breaking somewhere below the horizon and everything was that eerie blue like the light a TV casts into a darkened room. I knew my alarm would be going off at 7:30 (I ended up pushing it to 7:40) and that I had to be at work by 8:30 at the latest. They say you shouldn’t sleep unless you can get at least 3 hours, and I learned that “they” are right about that while I was taking care of Mom when she was dying. (This was also the first time I’d kept myself up so long since those horrible, upside-down days of five years ago.) I didn’t actually fall asleep until somewhere around 6 a.m. 

I may have nodded off briefly as a passenger in someone else's car late this afternoon, but otherwise, I managed to avoid napping so as not to completely fuck up my sleep cycle (especially since this weekend is a rare one where I will have to get up earlier than I do for work – much earlier – on both Saturday and Sunday and won’t have any chance to catch up on the sleep I missed this week). I'm running on about an hour and a half of sleep. (So, you know, if this doesn't make a whole lot of sense or is riddle with typos, cut me some slack.) I should be practically collapsing under the weight of exhaustion right now, but I’m not.  I went to put myself to bed a little bit early tonight and instead, this narrative started forming in my head.

It’s the first time in a very, very long time that words rumbling in my brain not only kept me up but drew me out of bed and to the computer. And there’s a little bit of joy in that. (Yes, I am still a writer. Even when I think it’s gone. Even when my heart is so broken and closed off and lost to me. …It comes back.) Just as there’s a bit of joy in the fact that while I was reading that book, I scribbled down some notes to myself about Ramona’s two books – things I want to go back and fix now that I can see a couple of new and different angles thanks to my recent experiences.

The book I was reading is called Fangirl and it’s by Rainbow Rowell. Last month, I stayed up til 2 a.m. on a work night finishing another book of hers, Eleanor & Park. In all the books I’ve ever read (and I read a lot of freaking books), I’ve never felt so connected to another writer’s voice. And I like that she writes characters I can relate to in a deep an powerful way even though they are so very, very different from me, because the stuff underneath is so similar to what lurks within me. But the thing I relate to the most is the thing that makes me love YA so much. It’s the single word that I think sums up who I am and what causes every good thing in me:

Hope.

…And, in a lot of ways, it goes back to a lot of the things my shrink and I talked about on Monday. She said that it’s important that I’ve tried to open myself up and allow myself to experience the pain of the losses I’ve experienced, because it’s the only way to heal and move forward and be close to others. Some people have described the quality that has allowed me to do that as “strength,” but they’re wrong. The current that flows beneath all the pain and frustration and confusion and disconnectedness, that keeps me drawing breath instant by instant, is hope. It grows even in the complete absence of light.

And that’s why I love YA (or, at least the YA books I’m drawn to), because hope is always a key thematic driver. Too many books written exclusively for an adult audience, at least in my experience, don’t have that. 

This is going to seem like a nonsequitor, but it’s not (and the timing is actually kind of freaky, I think). Yesterday, a friend posted an article about this organization on Facebook: http://www.wakeuptodyingproject.org/

The article quoted the project’s founder saying, “We also think that if we pay more attention to the way we die, we’ll pay more attention to the way we choose to live.”

Choosing hope leaves you incredibly vulnerable to all kinds of pain and disappointment. (And lots of people label the act of hoping as being childish.) But I think it’s also really brave. …And for me, I’m not sure it’s so much a matter of choice. It just…is. 

Not the best time of year

I was driving in my car literally thinking about how much it still bothers me every May to get promotional emails and see ads about Mother's Day (even though this was my fifth motherless Mother's Day) when my sister called to tell me my dad had collapsed. (I got the call that he'd died a couple of hours later.)

So, I spent the early days of May grieving the sudden loss of my dad and then got slammed with Mother's Day on top of it.

And now, I'm getting those promotional emails and ads reminding me (as if I could forget) that Father's Day is coming right up, too.

Who the hell decided to put Father's Day a month after Mother's Day anyway?

I have learned that I am very sensitive to dates. They should just be boxes on a calendar, but for me, they go beyond that. Birthdays matter. And I can't help remembering why Thursdays sometimes (probably in perpetuity) torment me. I am certain that, no matter how much I wish I could, I will never forget the dates that my parents died. And I am just as sure that each year both Mother's Day and Father's Day are going to smack me around a bit.

And I hate that every time I see an ad for these so-called holidays, it makes me angry. (Like, the kind of anger few people have ever known me to be capable of.) I hate that it makes me feel my loss deeper to see friends' social media posts about their parents and/or children. ...I hate that it makes me feel like someone dropped a house on me and then waited until I got back on my feet and dusted myself off before dropping another one on me.

I hate that I feel so helpless to stop this tide of negative emotions, even when I can see it coming, because they are appointed boxes on every calendar, every year.

Anyone who knows anything about the way I grieved for my mom knows that I'm not good at just sitting idly by and accepting these things. I fight back by DOING something in hopes of making myself feel better.

I don't know what I can do/will do to make this better for myself (yet), but I do know that I can remind people that there are many of us who have lost parents (not just to death -- to distance, to abandonment, to addiction, to illness, to incarceration) who have a hard time during these set-aside dates of honor. And while you should, of course, honor the people you love (every day, regardless of what box on the calendar you happen to be occupying), it's also good to put a little light around the people you love who have a hard time on these days. We may not always be comfortable asking for it, but the light is very much appreciated.

Just breathe

It’s been a month. A month since I sat in a grocery store parking lot in the dark and heard my sister tell me through a crackly phone connection, “Daddy died.”

(I still hear it over and over in my head, when I try to sleep, on my many long drives home in the dark. Every time, I think how I hadn’t thought of him as “Daddy” in so many years, but how it sounds less like some stupid tongue-twister to say it the way she did than, “Dad died.”)

Today has been one of the bad days. It didn’t start out that way, and I’m not sure exactly when or how it turned. Maybe it’s because it’s a month today. Or because the plans I had for today fell through. Or because it’s Sunday (I don’t know why Sundays are so much harder than other days, but they were after Mom died, too). Or because I saw a guy who looked startlingly like my dad in the audience at a game I reffed last night. Maybe it's a little bit of all of those things. Or maybe it's none of them. Grief doesn't seem to make a whole lot of sense a whole lot of the time. 

I don’t know how to write about Dad’s death. It’s not like Mom’s, where we had months – even years – to prepare for it and say goodbye. There are many things left unsaid between my dad and me. Many questions left unasked that will never be answered. And my relationship with my dad was much more complicated than the one I had with my mom, in so many ways.

But it’s not just Dad’s death I’m grieving right now. I am still trying to get used to this untethered feeling that comes from being an orphan. (A couple of people have taken issue with my use of this word, but it’s how I feel. My parents are gone and even though there are good, kind, loving people who fill parent-type roles in my life, they are not and never will be my parents.)

Shortly after Dad died, I went through my parents’ wedding album. I held a photograph in my hands of my parents and their parents and even though I already knew it, I couldn’t help marvel at the fact that everyone in that picture was dead. They all looked happy (and young) on that day 40 years ago…and now they’re all gone.

And I’m sitting here and even though I know it’s not true, even though I know there are so many incredible people in my life who truly and deeply care for me, I feel so alone. And small. It’s funny how the aloneness always shrinks you.

I was listening to the Joshua Radin song “Everything’ll Be Alright” earlier tonight. I always liked the line, “There’s a hole in my pocket that’s about her size.” I feel like the loneliness could shrink me enough to slip through a hole in somebody’s pocket.

The benefit of having gone through this before is that I know this is just a bad day. I know that it’ll turn again (probably just as fast) and I won’t feel like I’m just bobbing in dark water, trying to keep afloat. …But it’s hard to remember that when you’ve lost sight of the shore. It’s hard to remember that when you’re just focusing on breathing.

Just be happy

"Just be happy, and if you can't be happy, do things that make you happy. Or do nothing with the people that make you happy." - Esther Earl

I've been thinking a lot about my grandma since she died. Thinking about how when I would come to visit, I usually ended up lying on the couch and reading while she would sit in her chair watching old reruns on TV Land or her "cowboy pictures" on AMC Westerns. I always thought it seemed odd that we both genuinely enjoyed our time spent together, even though we weren't actually doing anything together. (And I felt guilty, like I should've done something more to enjoy those TV shows she liked or gotten her out of the house to do...something.)

The other day, my copy of This Star Won't Go Out finally arrived (it was my Project for Awesome perk). On the back cover is the above quote by Esther. I've heard it before -- quoted it before -- but seeing those words on the back of the book suddenly clicked for me.

I'm in a time and place in my life where I'm actually pretty happy most of the time. And when I get unhappy, I usually find ways to get happy pretty quickly and easily. (For this, I am exceptionally grateful.) There are lots of things I do and have done to make myself happy -- from the simple and stupid to the more grandiose and terrifying. But the thing is, the only time I've ever really done nothing with someone who makes me happy was when I'd read in my grandma's living room while she watched TV.

I had a dream about my grandma the other night -- the first since she died -- and all I remembered about it when I woke up was that there was something important she told me that I was supposed to remember (which, of course, I didn't). Maybe that's part of it. Maybe she wanted me to keep an eye open for more opportunities to just be with people who matter to me.

Washing the dishes

just now, I was reflecting on a lot of things. This past month has been one full of ups and downs (I've tried -- four times now -- to write about my grandmother's death...and I just don't know how to).

But I choose to focus on the bright, shiny things that have made the last several weeks bearable:

• Good friends who have called and emailed and sent things in the mail, to let me know I'm loved, to check up, to make sure I'm okay
• Amazing surprises (a doll version of me being auctioned off for charity and an amazing cake with M&Ms in the middle, just to name the two best ones)
• Officiating a bout and feeling like the only thing I messed up was a couple of sloppy call-offs
• Getting some closure on one of my favorite TV shows
• Meals with friends, catching up
• Discovering good books, good movies, good music
• SKATING
• Thoughtful gifts
• Check engine lights that go out without any expensive work
• Getting less snow than predicted

There are other things I'm forgetting, I'm sure. And it's hard to weigh these things against such a huge loss (or the other crappy things that have happened). But life isn't some giant scale. It doesn't always balance. It can't. It moves too fast. All I can do is lean into those good things and hold on as tightly as I can.

...and other days....

Yesterday, I had this strange dilemma while driving home from work in a snowstorm. It was heavy, wet snow. It was very slippery. And I saw this guy walking on the street in jeans and a sweatshirt -- no coat or hat -- carrying a couple of grocery bags. I didn't notice if he was wearing boots, and I couldn't see if he had on gloves. My first thought was to stop and offer a ride. But then I thought better of it. I didn't know this guy at all. He was much bigger than me, and could easily overpower me. Although I knew that it would PROBABLY be completely fine to offer him a ride and that MOST LIKELY nothing would happen, I couldn't take the risk. There's a registered sex offender living in my neighborhood (at least one, that I know of). Many years ago, I was engaged to a boy who had lunch a couple of times with a guy from school he felt sorry for -- that guy turned out to be a serial killer. The same one who murdered my brother-in-law's cousin. So, I know something about how small the world is. I know that a girl on her own who has no means of defending herself needs to be smart about the risks she takes. And it breaks my heart that I feel that way.

Tonight, I was eating dinner and I heard my guinea pig Stan cough a couple of times. It's not all that unusual. But then I got up to wash my dishes, and I saw that Stan had died. We've had a lot of snow here the past week (almost every day). Today was the first warmer day when some of it finally melted. But I still had to climb through the snowbank behind the house to get to the place where I buried my cat Mazzy almost three years ago and my other guinea pig Fiona almost two years ago. Even once I'd shoveled away a patch of snow, the ground was pretty much frozen solid. I had to put Stan in a shallow grave and cover it with a cairn of heavy rocks. It still didn't feel right, so I added the piece of limestone I'd kept from Misadventure Vermont and the big rock I snuck out of Hopewell Rocks during Misadventure Canada.

As I did that, I thought about how almost exactly nineteen years ago, my mom dug a hole in the frozen earth to bury my first guinea pig for me. I thought about how I got Mazzy for my birthday just a couple of weeks after that. (My mom thought a kitten would be good consolation after having my beloved dog and guinea pig both die within a couple months of my sixteenth birthday.)

I don't know that I got it right with the guy in the snow last night. I don't know if I got it right burying Stan in the backyard just now, trying to build a little monument of remembrance with those rocks that carry a reminder of my grief and my healing.

All I know is that, in all of these things, I've tried my best to do the right thing and sometimes it's really hard to tell what that is.

President's Day*

Shards of ice
sprinkling
like glitter.
Stabbing.
Sticking.

Freezing to the core
of anemic bones,
she ripped apart the earth
in the heart of a vicious winter
for a daughter
holding a shoebox.

I was at the stage when
everything sucks,
and Mom is the anti-Christ,
except when I had the flu
and when someone died...
even if it was
just a guinea pig.

The lump would not go away,
so the doctor helped him sleep.
It was more humane that way,
she said.

I stood trembling
without gloves
in the sneakers that came in the box I held.
He lay still, wrapped in a towel.

Later,
we would plant
Forget-Me-Nots
and keep the dogs from digging there.
She did not say anything when we went back into the house.
But I was grateful.

And I couldn't help noticing how
the sky reflected
colorless
in the new snow.



* I always say I only write bad poetry, and this pretty much proves that. I wrote this about my mom and another guinea pig many years ago, but tonight I am remembering it in honor of Stan.

Some days I get it right

I've had this cold for about a week now, and I still feel pretty crummy. (Although I think I might finally be able to make it through the day without any cold medicine! Huzzah!)

There are days when, no matter my intentions, I mess everything up. I'm in a bad mood or I stumble over the words I use or I just want to be left alone. I make a rash decision that results in problems for me and/or others. I have these days a lot, and mostly I try to think of them as learning opportunities. (Especially the bad decisions.) If I learn something from all the mistakes and all the bad days, that helps make them mean something, right? (It sounds good in theory, but living with it can still be hard.)

I often say there are many things I regret (I remember the line from Reality Bites where Ethan Hawke said, "I have this planet of regret sitting on my shoulders" -- a line I remember even though I haven't seen that movie in 20 years), but I wouldn't undo any of my regrets, because I would lose the things I learned from them, too. And then I would be less me.

Anyway, there are lots of those days, but there are also days when I get it right. Days when I do something small that has a big impact. Like Goldie thanking me a second time for the stress liver I mailed her in my most recent postal ninjery. Like Kraken thanking me for "being awesome" as we discussed officiating lineups. Like Roo and her mom.

When it was time to hand my free pass to someone else, I posted this on Facebook:

Have you ever felt like you needed a Free Pass on something? (The homework or dishes or exercise you don't want to do tonight but feel guilty about putting off? The way you took out your bad day on someone else? The opportunity you let slip through your fingers?) I've got ONE free pass to hand off to someone. Tell me you need it (you don't need to say why), and I'll postal ninja it to you. Go!

Roo said her mom really needed something like that. So, I sent it to her mom. I think the gesture confused her more than anything, but at the very least, it gave Roo an opportunity to tell her mom how great she is and that she deserves to take a break for herself sometimes. Roo and her mom thanked me as if I'd done something great when all I'd done was send a little token (literally!) in the mail.

Because, sometimes, that's all it takes.

I realize that the days I get it right are the days when I'm not overthinking things, not oversharing things, not complicating things. They're the days when I think of something small and maybe a little sweet and I do them. Just because.

I ordered a bunch of stamps from the post office -- Harry Potters and two kinds of Pixar montages. I bought them because I thought getting mail with those stamps on them might be fun for people (if they look at the stamps, and I hope they do). So, I'm going to keep postal ninja-ing random things to people, but I'm also going to start sending more 1-stamp notes (at least until these three sheets of stamps runs out...) because I can and because it might make the difference in someone's day.

Starting now.

Oh, David Levithan

I did a search to see how many times David Levithan has shown up in my blog posts.

There's this one about the time I met him -- I had no idea who he was before that night. And this one, titled with one of the few words that reaches deep into my guts and twists them up and causes so many feelings just by its mention (every time I hear it), that describes how his words helped pull me out of one of my darker grieving days. And this one, which talks a bit about the Red Notebook or this one, which mentions the idea in the first place. There's this epiphany-style one which, upon re-reading, is one of the truest things I've ever written about myself and my connection to words. And there are a couple other off-hand references as well.

This is probably going to be a bit scattered because I myself am scattered most of the time anyway, and because all these thoughts are still unraveling in my head. Because I'm getting a cold and I feel worn down (not just physically, but psychically, too).

I dislike journals. I used to buy them, because I'd get lost in the pretty covers or the page design or the secret back pockets (I love anything with pockets). People buy me journals regularly. There's a shelf full of blank journals in my library. I tend not to write in them, because I don't know what to put in them. I'm better at writing in front of a keyboard with a delete button and options to cut and paste, where my fingers move as quickly as my thoughts. And writing long-hand tends to make my hand hurt. Sometimes my wrist pops and dislocates. It's uncomfortable. On the rare occasion that I do start scribbling in a journal, I pretty much never fill all the pages. Often, I go back and rip out the pages I have filled -- because the words aren't right or they no longer fit or I'm afraid someone might find them one day and read them and get the wrong ideas about me. I take the pictures from the covers and scattered phrases from the torn pages and I make collages.

I realized recently that I haven't made a collage since the Red Notebook. I'm not sure why this is. (It also strikes me as interesting that I spearheaded the Red Notebook Conspiracy, which was all about filling a journal. A journal that, to this day, still has some blank pages.)

I'm thinking about journals and collages partly because of David Levithan, because his words inspired the Red Notebook Conspiracy, because his words have so often shown up in my collages.

I'm thinking about the River Song journal a friend gave me for Christmas (along with a TARDIS pen) that made me feel like I needed to fill its pages, because it was special (partly because of who it came from and partly because of the Whovian reference). I started filling that journal with quotes I find inspiring (things I'd normally put in collages or keep in a list in a draft email to cut and paste into my email signatures...back when I wasn't too lazy to do that). Late one night, I flipped that journal over and started writing from the back, a strange little entry about who I am. Who I really am, in all its simplicity and complexity.

And I was thinking about all of that just now because I was reading one of David Levithan's early books -- Are We There Yet? -- in the tub just now.

Like I said, I'm not feeling well. It's currently snowing like crazy outside and the water heater got fixed yesterday, so I figured I'd take a nice, hot bath with a mug of tea and do some reading. I got so absorbed in the book that both my tea and the bath water went cold. (At least the bath water could be warmed up without too much inconvenience.)

The book is about two brothers who are very different and don't get along well who have been tricked by their parents into taking a vacation together in Italy. Like every other David Levithan book I've read, I'm enjoying it. I like the characters and I like his analogies and the subtle lyricism in his writing. But I started dog earing pages when the lines reached in and twisted up my guts the way the word Lovely does.

Sometimes I want to simplify my life into a single bare thing. And other times I want to complicate it so thoroughly that everything I touch will become bound in some way to me. I've become quite aware of my contradictions, but there's no true resolution in that.

 And then

Elijah fundamentally wants everyone to be happy.

And also

Danny sees that Julia can't decide whether he's being true or whether he's just being kind. It doesn't occur to her that the two can be one and the same.

I feel like there are people who probably think that my gestures of kindness are not completely true (hell, sometimes I believe it, too -- I often say, "I'm not that nice"). But the thing is, I'm also not a liar. I can't even remember the last time I knowingly said something untrue. (Like, it's painful for me when I say something that I realize could be interpreted in a way that's untruthful, because it "feels like lying" -- a phrase I often use and think people probably find...well, weird.)

I got to thinking about how there's a bit of both Elijah and Danny in me, even though they seem like such starkly different characters.

All of that wrapped around to me thinking about this strange email exchange that happened between me and a friend (at least, I think we're still friends, but I'm not totally sure) about a week and a half ago. I'd spent some time thinking about a conversation we'd had and I sent an email I thought was trying to be kinder than where we'd left off. My friend mistook my tone (and I can see why, although I think there was a bit of an overreaction to it) and sent a response that was a bit exasperated, to say the least. In that response, my friend made a point of telling me that not everyone checks their email as often as I do.

Here's the thing about that: I try really, really hard to respond to people's emails quickly. Always. At work, I do it because that's part of professionalism, I think. I know not everyone does this. I know people notice that I do (they often comment on it and thank me for it). I know I get mad when something I'm working on grinds to a halt until I can get a response from someone who is not as timely as I try to be. At home, I try to respond to emails quickly because it's my way of telling people, "You matter to me."
 
And, yes, I do check my email a lot. And yes, I sometimes email people a lot (because if I'm thinking about something that has to do with them, I want them to know it -- it's important for people to know THAT you think of them and WHAT you think of them -- and because I worry about forgetting things if I don't write them down).

This is why I get so tense about being on time, too. I used to think it was because my mom was always ridiculously early for everything and insisted that if I wasn't 15 minutes early, I was late. Maybe that's part of it. But more than that it's this: I hate waiting for people. I feel self-conscious and weird while I wait. I worry that something has happened to the person meeting me or that I've somehow mixed up when or where I'm supposed to be. So, I try really hard to always be on time when I'm meeting someone. It's my way of saying, "You matter to me" and "I don't want to waste your time" and "I don't want you to experience those icky feelings waiting for me."

The weirdest thing about these two habits of mine? The reverse is not true. Yes, I appreciate a quick response to an email (especially in a professional context, but in a personal one, too). And while I do get mad about delayed professional emails, I don't get mad about friends who take some time to respond to personal emails (unless I'm trying to plan something and need information from them to complete the plan). I don't think they're trying to say "You don't matter to me." Same goes with my friends who are chronically late every time we get together. I might get anxious and feel crummy while I wait, but I don't get mad at them for it. I don't think they're trying to tell me my time is unimportant to them or that I don't matter.

And somewhere buried in all these contradictions and neuroses and attempts at both kindness and truthfulness, I know that I can overwhelm people (even when that's the last thing I want to do -- in fact, when I try to stop it, I seem to only ever make it worse).

I didn't write all of this down in the back of my River Song journal, because it's too much to write by hand, because it's too much to think about. (The quotes will, I hope, end up in the front part, though.)

Once again, David Levithan has given me much to think about.

But, for now, I'm going to just go back to letting myself get lost in the story.

Free Pass

A ref friend of mine sent me this funny little poker chip in the mail the other day. "Free Pass" was stamped on its face. The enclosed note described how it was a part of an interactive art project, the idea being that everybody needs a free pass on SOMETHING once in a while.

But what on earth could I use it for?

I spent days thinking about this. I have a tendency to both work very hard and be very lazy. When I'm lazy, I give myself a hard time for not working harder. When I work too hard, I give myself a hard time for not being gentler with myself. (Being a Pisces isn't easy.)

In the end, the Free Pass inspired me to do the exact opposite of what was intended: It got me to finally get some decent work done on the query letter for my books.

Writing about grief is hard, especially when it's rooted in your own experience. Sharing that with others is difficult, but EXPLAINING it to strangers is excruciating. At least, that's what it's felt like for me for the last 42 days as I tried to both gather the courage and organize my thoughts to write this all-important letter so that I can take the next step toward getting my books out into the world.

Tonight, I felt exhausted from the moment I got home from work. I ate dinner and then sat on the couch watching TV and futzing around on the Internet. I read a little more of the book I've been reading. I was going to use the Free Pass to put myself to bed early (an exceedingly rare occurrence in my life), and I felt glad to finally have figured out what to do with it.

But then as I was passing that little orange disc on my coffee table on my way to bed, I was struck by an explosion of sentences in my head -- an opening to the query letter that's been plaguing me since the beginning of the year. I could have gone to bed. (Maybe I even SHOULD have.) But instead, I thought about how I've given myself ENOUGH free passes on this. Sometimes, it's important to face the things that scare you, the things that are hard.

I just emailed my writing partner with my first and very incomplete draft of my query letter. And I haven't felt this good, this accomplished in quite a long while.

I may not have used my Free Pass exactly as it was intended, but I think I got just about the best result I could have.

35

I will turn 35 in about a month and a half, and I've been thinking about that a lot. So many things happened around the time I turned 30 -- I started reffing, I moved and started a new job, my mom got progressively sicker until she died. And as crazy as it is to think all those things happened five years ago, it's also incredible to think of all the things that have happened since.

I got to thinking about how I've spent my 35th year. I got started early, as I am wont to do.The weekend before my birthday, a bunch of friends and I traveled to Boston to do a Watson Adventure scavenger hunt at the Museum of Science. It was amazing and we won. We met up with some other friends and went trampolining. Then we had a good dinner. It was a great way to celebrate turning 34. The rest of my 35th year included many fabulous experiences, too:

• I officiated a bunch of derby (men's and women's)
• Staffed even more derby
• Did two more Watson Adventures scavenger hunts
• Saw the elephants in Hope
• Celebrated Grandma’s 90th birthday
• Officiated Renee and Kevin’s wedding
• Got my passport
• Visited Canada for the first time
• Had several great architectural misadventures (Columcille Megalith Park, Hammond Castle, Opus40, Lucy the Elephant)
• Rode a giant horse
• Continued the daily writing streak that began in November and concluded in June
• Wrote a book (the best thing I’ve ever written) in 157 days
• Scattered Mom’s ashes on what would've been her 60th birthday
• Had a nice day on the beach at Cape May
• Saw my cousin for the first time in 25 years and snuggled with her horse
• Ate from a bunch of fancy food trucks
• Cut off 8 inches of hair and donated it
• Rode a bike around Peaks Island (in a tutu!)
• Danced at a What Cheer? Brigade show (in a tutu!)
• Ate doughnuts all over the state (and can now tell you which ones are best)
• Played laser tag for the first time (and discovered I wasn’t half bad)
• Climbed a rock wall for the first time (and discovered it’s hard on the knees)
• Saw my favorite band (and another I really like) in concert
• Celebrated Dad’s 70th birthday
• Played disc golf for the first time (and laughed so much because I was so, so, SO bad)
• Filmed a lip syncing video to “Call Me Maybe” with my hilarious co-workers
• Climbed around at Monkey C Monkey Do
• Attended Mary and Gloria's wedding (legal this time)
• Survived the Mountain Raid (and got a medal!)
• Voted Ms. Chutzpah for the Intermediate DerbyLite class with Dishy
• Completed the plank challenge (got up to 5.5 minutes)
• Saw 3D Doctor Who in the movie theater
• Read a bunch of books (45 for the calendar year)
• Cured my headaches
• Got a lot healthier (in terms of what/how I eat and exercise) -- still a long way to go
• Had a lot of good days (some bad ones, too, but mostly good)
• Donated to lots of charities and people in need
• Received lots of support from others
• Spent time (and many meals - including Thanksgiving) with good friends
• Began the postal ninjery campaign
• Booked my trip to Iceland
• Got up to see the first sunrise of 2014 (my 35th new year) in the easternmost point in the US

Today, I bought a ticket to see my favorite band again in June (along with another I've been wanting to see). And I've already got some ideas in the works for celebrating my 35th birthday in a spectacular way.

Of all the things that have changed in the last five years, of course the biggest thing is missing my mom. I wish she could see all the things I've done and how happy I am (most days) with my life and my place in the world. (Then again, I can't help wondering who and where I'd be if she hadn't died....)

In the end, all I can do is try to show my gratitude for a pretty damn fantastic 35th year as it winds down and hope that I can fill the next one with as much (more?) fun and adventure.

Good omens

Celebrating the new year has been difficult for me for most of my life. Things I remember that I'd much rather forget. Things that make me feel small and unimportant and unlovable. Plus, it's cold and dark this time of year, which usually starts getting to me right around now.

This one was going to be my 35th new year, and I wanted to do something different, something that I could consider a good omen for the year unfolding before me. I decided to go up to the easternmost point in the US (Lubec, ME) to watch the first sunrise of 2014.

My derby kid and her boyfriend and I drove out to the West Quoddy Head lighthouse an hour earlier than I usually get up for work. I don't remember the exact temperature, but it was less than ten degrees and more than three. (Not that it really matters when it's that few degrees. Really. I had double layers of pretty much everything on, and I was still freezing. Here's how cold it was: Some random stranger's collie came bounding up to me and made a nose print on my glasses which froze there in the instant it took me to swipe them off my face to wipe them clean. )

We stood outside in the cold for 45 minutes, taking pictures and sharing gumball machine ninjas with strangers, waiting for the sun to make its appearance.

And then it did:

I have rarely in my life felt such peace. Afterward, we thawed ourselves out and had amazing homemade waffles and got back in our cars to go home. For all the time I've spent in cars in the last week (so much more than anyone would want to), it was a pleasant drive home.

I was looking for a good omen to start 2014, and I think I got it. Maybe it's a good omen for all of us. (At least, I can hope.)