And I Can See For Miles and Miles and Miles

I stand convinced that the year 2011 passed without a summer. As one whose mental and emotional faculties have formed a steadfast, boy scout worthy knot around the weather patterns, I can assert this with 99.9% certainty. That minute fraction of doubt accounts for the two times I went quarry swimming (though I'm of the opinion now that those were lucid dreams) and the early handful of afternoons that my birthday suit met sun rays on the deck for a pow wow (now evident only in the microscopic caramel to olive gradient of a forgotten tan line). Some women are thought to be born with a maternal instinct; Mother Nature invoked me with a vernal instinct, and this year I was a woman so barren that I hadn't the proclivity to grasp at even the most fleeting of orphaned sun beams... A heart resigned to deprivation.
What was I deprived of? My time, my security, my ability to be still without the looming echo of of some undone task. A second job turned in to a third turned in to a fourth. Days were no longer days, they were doubles. The weeks consisted of 14 flipbook quality cycles of cognition. Don't ask how, the answer will exhaust even the most zen-like mind. In short, I flew the coop of a nest I'd built for 10 years in the candy biz, all woven by little twigs of friendship, personal strife, shelter, happiness, and comfort. Truth be told, my boy scout artistry doesn't end at the crafting of an emotonal weather knot, I've perfected a lasso grip on routine as well. Bouncing from place to place doesn't suit me, and when those places are completely devoid of sentimental value it is all the more a drain on the soul. Luckily, this little bird has landed on a branch perfectly fit to house a new nest of accomplishments and dreams. There are new seasons afoot.
I know myself painstakingly well, maybe to a fault, but I think what I'm experiencing these days is the waking moments of a transformation. The girl who thrives on light and warmth feels betrayed, and has found an unusual revelatory quality in these recent days of sweater weather and stone grey skies. Don't get me wrong, I've always adored the autumn season for it's wild colors, crisp mornings, and pumpkin-induced euphoria, but that has invariably taken a backseat to the regenerative properties of the spring and summer sun. What changed? There was a snag in my thread of comfort that has only recently been mended, and as a result I'm investing every unrequited aspect of warm month happiness in to the Fall account; I'm teeming with repressed enthusiasm to find comfort, and I don't mind if that comfort comes from sweaters and blankets as opposed to lawn chairs and sticky skin.
Though probably not on permanent vacation, the boggy Southern summer days played an unexpected outro early this week, and with the cooler temperatures came a therapeutic psychic upswell. Every absence and upset of Bummer (nonexistent) Summer '11 has vanished. The love child of spring rebirth and New Year's Eve promise is coursing through my veins; I'm ready for new beginnings. Now out of hiding, I can't hep but engage in holistic conversations with myself. I needed a cold splash to the face, and moreover, I needed to find new reasons to smile. Bring on the abundance and repose of an unmarred season.
This afternoon I walked down the sidewalk running errands with my waffle knit cowl neck sweater hanging loosely at my sides. Cool air brushed my flushed cheeks and rapped against the sleeves of my sweater. I felt awake, felt compelled to think, not lulled or extinguished by an overheated body and mind. I acknowledged for the first time in months the sensation of being motivated and curious. So tonight I celebrate self renewal with the back door open as damp crisp air filters in and circulates summer stagnation out of the apartment. I got all rosy-cheeked over a hot a oven when a rare impulse to bake found me hovering with a full mouth over two dozen Nutella Spice Cookies. I prepared my dinner with equal gusto, full of spice; rosemary roasted carrots, brussels sprouts seared in the apple cider vinegar and garlic, dill baked salmon. WAKE UP WAKE UP!! I cried to my senses. WE ARE ALIVE! COME OUT COME OUT! It was visceral. At this very moment I continue to feel little parts of myself unfolding like a withered plant whose roots absorbed tiny drops of water for the first time in a very long time.

The gloomy days are nice, really. Unlike the sun that reaches in to my apartment and envelopes me in her glistening arms with the expectation that I'll join her outdoors, these drizzly days ask only that I stop and take this time to do a slow about face. I don't want to distract my senses from this time of introspection, so I keep the lights down low. My life is illuminated by pockets of amber glow where small desk lamps reside. I'm beckoning a little extra warmth from as many candles as I can possibly light without serious risk of a fire. My mind is racing with the possibility of camping trips, craft projects, and hours singing over dinner in the kitchen. I can't wait to get my little mitts on my knitting needles, I want desperately to hold a glass of bourbon in front of a campfire under layers of clothes. Cowgirl boots, pumpkins, chilly nights at the drive-in, that first pot of chili.. Soon I'll replace my tomato plants with Mums and adorn my neck with scarves instead of summer necklaces. Mom will have an altar during Dia de Los Muertos, I'll rock climb, and finally make another pair of leather moccasins. This Autumn is welcome with open arms to the point that if my heart were a front door, there'd be a little pineapple trinket hanging from my soul. I prepare the apartment each morning with the same care I would if I knew there were guests on the way, edging out the dejected carelessness of those long summer days that still managed to pass with barely a whisper.

It's only cloudy to accommodate all the light that will soon come flooding in.

The Dance

Today I was awakened to the presence of a love affair that has spanned the duration of my life, in which I have been an unwilling and unconscious partner, fated to be stuck in the throws of this love/hate relationship for the remainder of my days.

But first, I did what any sensible gal does on a beautiful Spring day in glorious weather that is long overdue; I laid in the sun. Well, I tried. Today went like this...

First, I committed a criminal act. I slept in and, in my selfish slumber, missed the waking hours of perfection. On a sunny day that promises to climb in the mid 70's, there's nothing better than the anticipation of warmth, the eagerness to be outside and under the largest star in the universe. I like to be up around 9, with coffee (or green tea these days) in hand while my senses wake themselves. By the time I have a bellyful of oats, fruit, and honey and have showered myself clean of puffy eyes and body odor, the world is usually ready for me and my lawn chair. But today, having forfeited my rights to a leisurely morning, I waived myself of the duty to shower and proceeded straight to the deck, hair wrapped in a scarf, face shiny with a thick coat of moisturizer.
First order of business, repaint my toenails. There I sat with my supplies neatly arranged on the patio table. I dabbed polish remover on a napkin and took a single swipe at my big toe. I had only smudged a negligible hole in last week's polish when he came.
He dons a yellow jacket that isn't fit to stretch, never meats to cover his bulbous black belly. Nature's representation of Fat Man in a Little Coat. Despite his bottom heavy build, he hovers mockingly, effortlessly. He hovers and waits. What is he waiting for? I do my best impression of Mona Lisa; stoic expression, showing no sign of amusement, but with eyes that follow. He hangs there, gives a shimmy, then SWOOSH! A bombastic divebomb executed with the collective sum of the world's bravado and machismo. I knock over my bottle of nail polish remover while frantically calling his name. I have affectionately dubbed him $@&*!. I yell for Sean to show my visitor the door, which looks an awful lot like a rolled up magazine in a lethal male fist. Sean comes out with one heroic arm raised, and away floats my visitor nonchalantly over the rooftop, as if possessed by the birds in flight. Sean's arm goes down, "You ok?" "I guess." It takes 45 minutes to complete the first coat of polish. $@&*! and I continue on with our dance between brushstrokes, valiant Sean continues to step in, defending my honor.

I'm not unfamiliar with this dance. It's fearful, it's combative, ritualistic, animalistic, hedonistic. It is performed with fervor masking cowardice. The foot extends in a motion to decline promenade, my partner darts and blocks my exit, my foot retracts as my head takes its umpteenth nod of capitulation and I fold in to myself, paralyzed. My partner bows and disappears until the next act. In the past this dance has included props. Before engaging in foot work I reach for a plastic racket whose frame is an electric shade of dayglo, and with thumb depressing a little black button I swing my prop through the air hoping to introduce it's electrifying presence to my partner. I am in warrior pose. Calling my bluff, $@&*! accepts my advances and makes a literal bee line toward my face. Not willing to tango with the shocking ribs of my own weaponry, I resign my place on the dance floor. The day is young. There will be zapping.

Why do I engage in this dance? Why do I humor the hostility of my daily visitor with the flailing acts of terror he so obviously aims to elicit? Simple. A few swollen abrasions on one of my tender appendages, costly days of feeling drugged and defeated by Benadryl, cursing while hovering over the toilet to evacuate my stomach in nauseous rage. $@&*! has a close relative, smaller, favoring a striped costume to the snug fitting jacket. This nasty redheaded stepchild has stung me three times too many, rendering me sick and utterly useless for a full 24 hour period. The honey bee is venomous and vengeful without provocation, I dare not learn what this larger, more menacing cousin is capable of.

To be fair, it isn't just $@&*! for whom I have danced. The wasp also once knew the nature of my quick step, but asserted early on that, despite his long needle sharp tail, he was more interested in getting to his nest than wasting his precious time on me. Confession: I poisoned the nest, which is craftily tucked in the splintered wooden frame of this precariously high and weathered deck on which I perch. I poisoned them, family by family, nest by nest, until one day I was without poison and forced to notice the truth of a wasp's routine; the respectful nature of their flight, the dignity in their hard days work. The wasp occasionally leaves home for work, and sometimes enjoys the sensation of being suspended in the wind between his shifts. He doesn't come too near and he doesn't care to dance; when I jump up he promptly hangs closer to the ragged edges of abode. The wasp and I share the wind and the sunshine. We have an understanding.

I have tried to reach the same plane of perception and acceptance with $@&*!. On many a warm day I have let that screen door slam with the express determination to look my visitor in the wings with earnest welcome. As expected, he comes and he hovers. First near my feet, a safe distance, one that makes me believe he senses my acceptance and is willing to approach with timidity. With my guard down I go about my task du jour, forcing a stubborn and deliberate calm to overcome trepidation. I relax in to this new relationship. On this day we won't dance. Ahh..... ZZZZZZZZZZZ! ZZZZZZZ!! ZZZ ZZ! I am attacked, assaulted, brought to reckoning by a pair of ferociously beating wings. $@&*!! $@&*!! I call his name. It is the white flag of acquiescence to his insect ears. We are at it again.

Today I woke up with resolve. After determining that today was to be spent outdoors, I planted that seed of willfulness and naivete in my mind that today he would not bother me, today I would lay perfectly still and be perfectly at peace. His buzz was to be my song. And, in one of my prouder moments, I have to say I accomplished that sense of peaceful security for exactly 19 minutes. I probably could have gone longer but the anaesthesia of sunlight was not enough. My scared inner child quickly turned to palpable irritation and it bubbled over without warning. "Sean that's it! THAT! IS! IT! Kill him! Kiiiiilllllllll him!" My voice has never taken on such malice. "I thought you were doing alright out there?" "KILLLLL!" "Alright." We were back on script. Sean came out wielding a magazine looking far more exasperated than militaristic. Clearly, this damsel's drama was wearing thin. I laid down and closed my eyes, this time I wouldn't retreat, I wanted to be there for his demise. I heard the lunging of Sean's weight and the cylindrical tool of eradication cutting the air, but I didn't hear a thud. Then I heard nothing. "He flew over the roof." "UGGGGGH!" Sean went inside but emerged five minutes later and began reading.

"Male eastern carpenter bees are curious and will investigate anyone, including humans, that comes near their nests. The curiosity is often interpreted as aggressiveness; however, the males are only aggressive to other male carpenter bees. They do not have stingers and cannot cause any real harm."

Huh? He goes on...

"They sometimes attempt to mate with other insects or small birds. An interesting trick to use to "move" a male carpenter bee out of the way is to pick up a small pebble (roughly the size of the bee), then toss it past the bee. They will attempt to chase it, distracting them for a few moments, long enough for a human to get by. However, since they cannot sting, and rarely accord any attention to humans, this is unnecessary."

He went on to read a passage about a carpenter bee's tendency to bore holes in wood to build their nests. They "tend to hover for hours on a sunny day." They sure do. I erupted in laughter. Fits of laughter. The kind that comes from so deep within that it stretches the diaphragm to explosive proportions. It hurts and causes you to choke, the kind that forces tears from your eyes. This dance, this ridiculous, clumsy, persistent, neurosis building dance that I have been suckered in to for 27 years is not the battle I perceived. Some dumb, bumbling creature looks at me with amorous curiosity, not bloodlust. It wants to mate with me on a good day, and protect its nest from me with stingerless imposition on a bad day. It will sooner extinguish me by boring the final hole in this rickety wood, sending me plummeting to a three story death, than it will inflict direct physical harm.

Even now, after having enjoyed dinner outside and armed with this knowledge, I flinch in its path. No longer troubled by the thought of imminent sickness, now I'm just thoroughly annoyed. Who wouldn't flinch at a giant flying insect that darts indiscriminately at your face or hangs within earshot boasting an ominous buzz? Now I look at my suitor, the carpenter bee, and I feel deep-seeded loathing. The years spent frightened and hiding at the pool, in the backyard, on a hike, getting sun. The stupidity of the creature; can't he smell that I'm the same non-threatening, non-bee species, unmatable blob of moving flesh that he just checked out ten seconds ago? Must he respond to my every insignificant gesture as a sign that I might want to have his bee babies? And isn't it just like a man to be off sizing up the potential when he has a perfectly devoted bee spouse dutifully collecting pollen somewhere in a little burrow of the deck? Sleazeball.

And then I am reminded that we are both creatures of suffering. Spring Fever has a grip on both us equally; it lures us from our homes, breaks the spell of hibernation, and casts a sun-induced trance. My bewitchment is expressed through hours and hours of turning in the sun, losing track of the minutes in favor of warmth and a healthy glow. But this poor dumb creature, this sad sap, listens to his biological voice and can only perform his dance. He dances for pleasure, for courtship, for bravado, for blind instinct. It is not my love song, it is not my disco. The carpenter bee's own Inferno, to zip and twirl and admire superfluously. Confusion and preoccupation for the unknown. Unrequited love. We will never dance the same way again.

Are You Lightning?

No sound is more synonymous with a Southern day of thunderstorms than the screen door slamming. Gusts of wind catch our back door, whose rusted latch never quite catches, and rattles it in the frame as if someone is locked out, shaking the door in frustration. From the bathroom come echos of this rattling, as a century old window pane vibrates in the millimeter of space that has worn in to the wood in its lifetime of weathering wind and storms. From the bedroom one can not decipher the rustling of the tree tops from the whir of traffic on wet pavement. I'm not one to romanticize the rain, but I have to admit, I covet days that demand nothing of me but to sit in PJs and storm chase from my couch. Fascinated by the radars, the viewer photos, the firsthand accounts, and the breaking news of damage; my attention reanimated by buzz words like rotation, squall line, wall cloud, funnel, wind gust, and rain wrapped tornado; I am in the crow's nest, centered indian-style on the sofa, glued to a busy weather team on television. Every Spring brings a day like this one.
I can feel the cushions pulse in the same quake that shakes the walls and reverberates as the thunder rolls over the sky. Flashes of heat lightning draw my attention back to the backdoor windows, though the view is obscured by a screen door beaded in rain drops. I recall the many sounds of rain I've encountered; how it tinkled on the tin roofed back porch of my childhood home, how it was muffled by canvas flaps of the platform tents at girl scout camp, how it sounds like it'll flood us and sweep us away when Sean and I are camping in a nylon tent, the way it beats against the thin windows of a log cabin or filters through tall trees in the woods, how magical it is dancing against a body of water. My cat watches with horrific magnetism as the branches that usually house her bird friends sway wildly, as pots are blown over and the grill cover bucks against sheets of rain. She's just like me, she can't peel herself away from watching, until the danger gets a little too near, at which time she bolts from the door with her tail in a fluff.
Today, the threat of any severe weather seems to have passed us. Some spontaneous grumbles of thunder and a heavy dose of rain are battling with the wind for the title of Most Menacing Weather Element, and that's all that's left to worry about in the Ohio Valley. As the disturbance winds down, the weathermen abandon me in favor of day time programming, and I'm left recalling my favorite stormy day memories...

As a little girl my mother instilled a fear of storms in me that surpassed a Pentacostal fear of God. The fear was so deeply ingrained in my child psyche that at the first sign of thunder I was sure I'd be swept up like Dorothy, certain that my destination would be far less magical than Oz. My memory busily retrieved stories of the '74 tornado that I'd extracted from my mother's phone conversations and mentally cataloged under Holy Moly; her pristine, white painted oak double-seater swing being splintered by the funnel cloud, the Highlands being torn apart, coming out of the basement to find the other side of her street clearly indicating the tornado's destructive path, fearing that my dad was dead when he was really riding around on his bicycle taking photos of the damage, my God Mother watching her neighbor's possessions churning in its own little cyclone.
When storms hit, our household followed a script so predictable that we were more like characters in a play than people living our lives. It was inconceivable that we would ever go out to dinner during a storm, or work on homework, or even take a bath. Daddy was always watching television, unimpressed by the brewing disaster afoot. While he happily ate his pizza (we always ordered in on rainy nights) Mother and I would color. With the blinds drawn in the family room we sat with a tub full of crayons, each selecting a book from our extensive collection. These were no grocery store coloring books, they were purchased from the craft section of the bookstore, and boasted intricate lines and artful images on cardstock paper. Our collective fear was channeled in to the picture, Mom and I fully concentrating on a world of colorful wax. A jarring clap of thunder might rattle our attention, but with heads still down Mom would whisper "We're ok." Usually the storm would subside right around the time that we were each faced with a completed masterpiece. Relief meets relief. But occasionally an unmerciful Mother Nature would send the tornado sirens screaming, and within 2 seconds all crayons were dropped and Mother and I were unfolding my dad's old army cot in the basement. We would yell in unison through the air vents, "Tom, get the animals!" "Daddy, find my pets!" And one by one, my father, with a look born of tedium and boredom, would dutifully deliver the animals down the basement stairs. Two wiggling cats. A cage of mice. A birdzerk cockatiel. At least one hamster. At least one lizard. A frog tank. A box turtle. An 80 gallon aquarium with a 4 ft long iguana whipping violently against the glass. "Tom hurry! Get down here! The sirens!" "I'm trying, Pat!" Poor Daddy, an unwilling Noah on a preemptive ark. And right on cue, as the last critter found a secure place on the cement floor and the first to be rescued were finally settling down and unruffling feathers, the sirens would stop. "Jefferson County is in the clear. You may come out of your basements." That announcement over the weather radio was the bane of my Father's existence. A cleansing sigh, irritation burning behind tired eyes, my dad looked down and lifted the aquarium. We survived again.

I'm at girl scout camp for the very first time. It is no small feet for me to go away from home. I am young, and shy, and terribly attached to my Mother. She's chaperoning, but still, we're on foreign soil. We embark on a lovely day of hiking and crafts and retire to our canvas flapped platform tents. I am full of enthusiasm for this new thing called camp. I slide in to my troll doll sleeping bag and delight in the idea that I'm going to bed and I'm not at home. Slumber finds me quickly. I am so content and cozy. And then a trickling rain wakes me. Just rain, no big deal... This is a real adventure! Then the thunder. There are no coloring books. Daddy isn't here. Mom reaches over and says, "It's fine," but I don't think she believes it. I'm determined to settle in to this adventure. I am determined to conquer my fear. I say, "I knoooow." There is thunder and lightning all night long. Heavy rain. I hear some of the other girls scream when the thunder claps, or cry to go home. I hear mom rustling in her sleeping bag. I think about the Mayans, and the Incas, and the Native Americans, and every other primitive culture I learned about at school and reminded myself that they must have lived through many storms without a basement. In my child's mind I resign myself to Mother Nature's will. I lay with my eyes closed and let myself really experience a storm for the first time. I kind of like it.

In fifth grade each kid in my class had a pen pal in San Antonio, TX that was learning English as a second language. We were in a Spanish immersion program, and used one another's letters to perfect our second tongues. At the end of the year we visited our friends in San Antonio at their elementary school. A couple of months had elapsed since several of us received letters from our pen pals, and some of us had gone through two or three over the course of the year. It was my first lesson in the cruelty of immigration policy. I sat at the lunch table with a girl I'd never corresponded with, but was paired with nevertheless. I wondered what happened to the girl in my letters, who couldn't understand why mis padres allowed tantos animales in mi casa. My new friend looked out the window and commented on the particularly unusual hue of grey in the sky. "My father works on a farm. He says when the sky looks like this it is going to be bad storms." Terror struck and I began to resent this girl who I did't know, who wasn't my pen pal, who had the audacity to scare me instead of making me feel welcome. We finished our lunch and nothing happened, but still I couldn't settle in to the visit. Bad storms? Why was everyone else so happy and at ease? This sky meant bad storms. We went back to their classroom for a group photo and still, not a single rumble of thunder. I finally dismissed my fake pal's diagnosis of the weather. What did she know? I smiled for the photo, hugged the Mexican students adios, and started thinking about dinner. It wasn't until we were filing out of the front doors of the school in single file line that the ominous grey fulfilled its promise. Sheets of rain came down in perfect lines, almost horizontal in the wind, to this day I've never seen more geometrically perfect sheets of rain. I sat on the bus with my nose buried in a Baby Sitter's Club book, attempting to ignore the giant bolts of lightning, but really, I was cursing that Mexican girl. She summoned the rain.

Fast forward 15 years. I am 20 years old spending a stormy day in my first apartment, much like today. Planted on the couch and glued to the news, I watched a line of solid red doom move across the radar screen from northern Indiana and Illinois, down across too-familiar towns in Southern Indiana. The Marengo Cave area was decimated. Trailers blown in to oblivion, schools now piles of brick, cars piled in heaps of twisted metal. People crying. As a wall cloud formed on the Indiana side of the river I became certain that Louisville was to meet the same fate. Even in a state of frantic alarm, I could not be persuaded to step a pinky toe in the cellar of my building. I lived in a nearly 200 year old brick building with way too much history and square footage to trust what may lurk below. The few times I attempted to open those double cellar doors in the backyard, I was met by thick matted cobwebs and clusters of leaves, dirt, and creepy indiscriminate matter. No. I could not trust that cellar to protect me from the wall cloud. I decided instead to heed the weatherman's advice and seek shelter in the inner most room of the apartment. I had a tiny hallway that led to the bathroom with only doorways to the foyer and living rooms on either side. Quickly gathering cushions from the couch and chair I lined the walls. Then, perhaps in an embarrassingly weak moment of humoring my own terror, I dragged my mattress in and blocked off the foyer. I kept the living room doorway open so I could keep an eye on the TV, but secured a hatch door out of an old futon cushion. In my little bunker I made sure to stockpile sentimental essentials; my letter box, my photo box, my favorite pair of jeans, a couple of trinkets belonging to my grandmommy, and my thoroughly unamused pets. I'm pretty sure I forgot to provide myself with food rations or water. To be fair, at some point the tornado sirens did go off, but I didn't take cover until the last of my prized possessions was safe. And sure enough, just as I'd placed the final pieces of nostalgia against my cushioned wall and got the animals calm in my lap, there was stillness. Is this the calm that my mother described before a tornado hits? I listened for the characteristic train whistle. Nothing. And then, almost mockingly, the weatherman said it, "Jefferson County is in the clear. You no longer need to seek shelter." I got up defeated, not by a disaster, but my own irrational fervor. The animals and I emerged. A storm had hit, alright. The one I created. And so, with the same cleansing breath my Father drew before heaving 80 gallons and a thrashing reptile in to his arms, I began loading my arms with trinkets.

Relating

There are phases in my life (and I hope in others') when my heart becomes possessed, overwhelmed with love for the people and things around me. I have an immediate urge to hug even the most mundane presence in my life; the trainer at the gym, the parking attendant, a longtime customer at work. During these times I am in a perpetual state of mentally giving thanks for all that I have, all that I have been spared of, and all that I see lying before me. After returning to a warm home that I share with someone I deeply love from an invigorating workout, I prepared a really satisfying meal, and realized that not only am I in the midst of a spontaneous love fest, I actually understand the impetus.

Admission: I am a news junkie. This is born mostly of my enjoyment of picking things apart, of studying culture, of observing communication dynamics, and of understanding how each of us falls in to a unit of purpose in the world. In the last week there have been two major headlines; A man using his God-given talent of voice to panhandle for survival was given a second chance at life, and a woman who dedicated her time and energy to serving and listening to the public was nearly robbed of fulfilling hers. How can one not be brought to the senses in wake of these events and evaluate what it means to be human? I don't think my brain ceases to measure my humanity against that of another's, that of society's, and that of any given subculture. Suffice it to say, I am obsessed.

We are responsible for one another.

When I first saw the story of Ted Williams, "The Man With the Golden Voice," I was stunned. My very first thought was that I was witnessing the talent of a truly humble soul. I am continually astounded by the degree to which success is linked to self promotion. It just doesn't seem fair that some mediocre jerk with a mountainous ego could enjoy a prosperous career while somebody with innate talent is left to beg on the side of highways. In the case of Ted Williams, he more than paid for the decisions he made that led to alcohol and drug addictions; losing his career and family, becoming estranged from his parent, being forced in to homelessness... Despite how long his rapsheet is, how hard others have worked to "legitimately" make it in broadcasting, or what the chances are that he has some secret hidden past, this is a human being with a genuine talent that has been given a chance at redemption. I find it indescribably uplifting that he has been afforded the opportunity, at the very least, to reunite and make amends with his loved ones. When I watch the news outlets question his ability to responsibly handle his newfound fame, while simultaneously dissecting and criticizing every element of his past, it just breaks my heart. Why can't we as a nation unite in joy for a fellow citizen rather than publicly scrutinize every possibility of their failure? I understand that this is the (unfortunate) role of media in our society, to exploit and engage a topic in it's most inflammatory and least likely facets, but WHY? Sadly, there really isn't a fair or satisfying answer to that question, but it seems that the goal in promoting stories like Ted's should be to expose and promote the notion that the extraordinary exists in the most banal and unconscious aspects of our lives. Every story has a right to play out naturally before the "I told ya so" instinct kicks in.

So needless to say, I was feeling pretty uplifted and inspired by the Ted Williams story. As far as I'm concerned, I am his steadfast cheerleader and I certainly hope that he is able to withstand the pressure of fame in order to sustain success. But just as I was really content on celebrating the resilience and redemptive qualities of the human spirit, an Arizona politician, along with her colleagues and constituents, were spontaneously gunned down. Listening to the breaking news over NPR, as I sat warm and safe on a slow day at the candy shop, I was crippled with regret for this strange culture, this feeble national morality under which we all mindlessly operate. Without knowing a single thing about the gunman or the victims one thing was glaringly clear; someone felt that there was no better alternative to handle their anger, and that person was empowered by both the law of the state and the larger cultural constructs, to obtain a weapon and use it against another living, breathing, cognizant human being. However, in this case the act of killing and maiming was perpetrated by a person with severe metal illness. I can't attempt to turn this in to a political debate, and honestly, politics has no room in this discussion. I also can't pretend to have the psychological answers to effectively interpret the shooter's motive. However, there are a few prominent and relevant aspects of popular culture that repeatedly smack me in the face and leave me feeling utterly helpless, frustrated, and disgusted.

I literally mourn for the child who is brought up distracted by shoot 'em up games while Mom gossips on her cell phone. I can feel my heart being wrung like a sponge when I hear friends describing the thrillingly gory and graphic images of a film or television show. I wince, close my eyes tight, and quietly wonder how calloused a soul must become to watch when I am exposed to such scenes in my own personal viewing of media and film. And yet, in the throws of this cultural bombardment of violence, negativity, cynicism, and entitled rage, we scratch our heads in wonderment while simultaneously wagging fingers of superfluous blame over how atrocities of the Arizona shooting caliber could ever take place. Especially now, as I am allowing excruciating levels of sympathy to enter my heart, I am fully aware of one simple strategy of minimizing the suffering and damaging cynicism in the world; find love.

It sounds cliche and oversimplified, but it is the truest sentiment. None of us can control our pasts, our upbringings, the wrongdoings we've endured and committed, our sensitivities and needs. What we CAN control is how those things motivate the people we strive to become. We control how we foster these strengths and flaws in others as well.

We are responsible for one another.

In the case of Ted Williams, it is denial and fear that prevent people from feeling compassion and joy from his story. None of us are willing to admit that we are all one degree of sanity away from losing everything we own and love to addiction, but that is the grave truth. One too many cocktails over time, an injury that demands prolonged pain medication, innocent experimentation that snowballs without warning; these are the routine realities of addiction. Similarly, when we invest so much time and money in to the Hollywood thrillers and explicit media content that constitute the bulk of popular culture, it is nearly impossible to recognize the subtle and cumulative psychological effects of such repeated exposure. In the end, even our political and religious climates are permeated by polarizing, defensive, self-righteous rhetoric. In either case, it is obvious that the average American's psyche is left damaged and confused, and incomprehensibly so in the case of one who struggles with addiction, poverty, homelessness, and mental illness.

It is easier said than done, easier recognized than practiced, but I'm positive that this sudden infusion of affection, devotion, and compassion in my own life is born of the severe lack of those qualities I perceive in the current practice of civility. Putting inflated news stories and gratuitous portrayals of misery aside, I let myself feel for others. I work to understand the perspective of those most deviant from my own, and try to understand why such chasms in the human experience exist. It's never certain which encounters may validate the darkest depths of a tumultuous mind, but it's far less likely to go wrong with the promotion of gratefulness and love.

I have all the fulfillment in the world that I could possibly need or deserve, and while there's room for growth, there's certainly the possibility of loss. I can only hope that the recognition of this dichotomy is the rule of humanity, rather than the exception. And so I try to tread lightly, live humbly, and find grace before placing blame. I'm not always successful, but it's my appreciation of life that pushes me to love beyond my limitations.

Shining Brightly

It is with big expectant eyes and a smile as wide as my heart is full that I ring in each new year. From some secret repository of excitement hidden in the depths of this tiny body, volumes of joyous noise and enthusiastic whooping come flooding through me at the turn of the year. I imagine my enthusiasm dazzling across sound waves, propelled by the kinetic energy of the party, with the collective vibrancy of new year's attire; every utterance shimmers like a sequined dress, every gesture and dance move have a metallic pizzaz, and that midnight kiss is as sharp and sexy as a good suit and tie. Everything that happens in the moments after counting down has the distinct feeling of being new.

Isn't that the best feeling? A year's worth of burdens and baggage totally melted away at the drop of a ball. I allow the butterflies, the flurry, the elation, the hysteria to completely overcome me. Abandoning all sense of time and duty, I allow the evening to sweep me up in bubbly drinks and dancing, in hugging and laughing, in the concentrated brightness of a New Year's Eve crowd.

It is only in the waking hours of the first day of a new year, once the champagne buzz has subsided and the sixteenth hour of sleep has passed, that the happy butterfly feeling sinks right to the pit of my stomach and the fluttering gets a little frantic. It isn't enough to simply celebrate a new year, you have to do something with it.

Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not one of those people who finds resolutions to be frivolous or contrived. I like having benchmarks, ways of measuring the prosperity of a year. But I find that as I get older it gets harder and harder to draft a meaningful and attainable set of blueprints to guide me through the next 365 days. It takes days of careful pondering, of combing music, literature, even fashion, for threads of inspiration. I used to feel an ugency to amalgamate all those notions as quickly as possible in order to purposefully move forward in the year. Now, I think I like to ruminate over what it is that inspires me before I attempt to extract a significance of my own. And of course, when that moment of illumination strikes and it appears as though I know exactly what it is I need and want from the coming months, my writer's spirit goes in to a frenzy.

Penning my resolutions is a solemn ritual; it requires silence, space to think, a determined mind. So it goes now as I say, welcome, welcome, welcome to a new and promising 2011.

1. On New Year's Eve day I began reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Tree of Codes. From his favorite novel he cut words and sentences out of each page, essentially creating this beautiful three dimensioanl puzzle of words and a new story that is extremely stark, but wildly descriptive through truncated thoughts. It wasn't until now that I fully recognized the symbolism in my choosing to sit with this novel on NYE. Not only did Foer take something old and well loved and make it personal and new, he let it speak through simplicity. One particular passage, the one bearing the titular namesake, struck me as an exquisite articulation of what it means to embrace the passage of time: "Exhausted by passivity, the poses and postures, the shifting weight from foot to foot, we find ourselves part of the tree of codes. Reality is as thin as paper. Only the small section before us is able to endure, behind us sawdust in an enormous empty theatre."

I have always been one to grip so tightly to the past that the future sometimes feels like a powerful current or undertow, lapping at my belly, threatening to rip away my grasp from what is known and concrete. Always shifting my weight to accomodate for the small shreds of change that I allow to eek past that guarded wall of routine. As I watch things change and grow around me, I'm beginning to realize that reality isn't this steadfast, reliable account of past experiences. No matter how cummulative knowledge and emotion and maturity may be, life is as delicate and viscous as muslin cloth. I think I'm ready to allow some of that fragile webbing to dissolve, I'm not afraid to stand in an empty room of the past.

2. I'm willing to clean out the closets of my mind, I should probably undergo a tangible purge as well. I spin sentimentality like spider's silk, enrobing ridiculously meaningless artifacts in artificial significance. This year, I will make a concerted effort to distinguish trash from trinket. As much as I love being surrounded by the familiarity of my belongings, I have a growing disdain for this culture of stuff we've become inured to. There are too many people in the world, and we are producing heap after unsustainable heap of crap because we have nothing better to do with our wealth. Thankfully, I'm attracted to things with history, things that are well lived in and well used. Still, I think I'm ready to commit to an "out with the old in with the new" modus operandi. I'm excited to eliminate some clutter and welcome a new family of possessions in to my life.

3. I want to document my life more thoroughly. For anyone who has clicked through the masses of photographs on my Facebook page, you may be scratching your dumbfounded head at this statement, but it's true. I've allowed my little photographic obsession to supplement the lack of a written account. I've carried the same pocket-sized Moleskin notebook around in my purse for the last two years, and all I have to show for it is a smattering of ruffled pages containing grocery lists. I want to make it a point to cultivate mindfulness by taking more notes. I don't make time for copying down a poignant passage, let alone a page number, I forget my thought when I think of the perfect way to describe something, I find myself in a funny or unusual circumstance whose memory is clouded over time. The more I take note of these things, the more easily instigated to write I'll become, I'm sure of that.

4. The act of walking, of taking a walk, holds a lot of meaning with me. As a child, Mother and I took daily walks. It was our time to talk and reflect, to laugh and observe, to smile at neighbors and collect things in our pockets. I loved Fall walks when there were acorns on the ground, and taking a walk on my birthday, the day after Independence Day, when a colorful littering of used fireworks blew down the sidewalks. As a teenager I walked Bardstown Road with friends almost daily; those walks signified the evolution of my independence, the mischief and harmless immaturity of my youth. Even in my early(er) years of adulthood I chose walking to the bank or the drugstore from my apartment over driving. Somewhere in these recently busy years between balancing school and work, I lost the motivation to hoof it. Looking back, I think there's a lot to be said for the time walking allows to take pause, to observe, to work off bad energy, to organize one's thoughts. I foresee two busy little feet and a clear conscience in my future.

5. The previous point may very well facilitate the one I am about to make- In the spirit of cleaning out clutter, eliminating unnecesary weight, and taking strides for a clearer, more productive mind, I need to invent more beneficial ways of processing and releasing negativity. As I admited in last year's resolutions, the gift of sharp wit and sarcasm might as well be the very strands of my DNA. We, the Moores and the Reads, are appreciaters and propagators of quick, dark humor. The other day when Daddy said he's afraid that a swift gust of wind would cause Angelina Jolie's lips to smack her in the face I nearly fell off my chair laughing at that image. However, when he makes similar jokes about people in our immediate environment, I can see a tiresome pattern of negativity for negativity's sake emerging. Learning to decipher a good laugh from an unwarrented jab is a personal hurdle that I've improved on, but have yet to overcome.

Further, I have a hard time letting go of a bad day or a series of inconvenience. I allow myself to rant, to complain, and sometimes to wallow. It would make my soul much lighter to find a means of shedding ill-feelings without speaking and acting them in to existence. Harnessing patience is a good first step, pulling myself back to consider what is worth attending to and what is easily ignored. Breathing, clearing my mind, unbusying myself- these are the acts I need to more frequently engage in. Or better yet, using my intuition and focusing on the humor in a trying situation.. Dont be so serious.

6. Find the perfect pair of red boots, and wear the living daylights out of them.