Whispering Loudly

Resting

2012-02-08T16:43:00.001-08:00

When I was a little girl the occasion always meant I got to wear a pretty dress, masquerade as a very small adult, and feast on finger sandwiches. There was the ubiquitous floral wall paper, huge prints of wisteria or lilly of the valley, always offset by some shade of plum or kelly green carpeting. The flower-printed walls often matched the arrangements, which were always finished in beautiful yellow or royal purple bows that I imagined in my hair. The warm scent of the deli tray competed with the distinctly unfloral scent of the florist's preservative spray; the smell was musty and denoted every thing my child's mind could classify as old. Maybe right fully so, in all of the visitations I was toted along to in my youth, we never once attended the funeral of anyone that didn't bear deep wrinkles on their folded hands and peaceful faces.

I grew up with death. I touched the cold hands of the deceased and I didn't flinch to think they might touch back. Somehow in my cherubic mind I understood that the people we visited were, well, dead. Each funeral was different; some families wept, others rejoiced, but all were gathered in celebration and memory of a person who was cherished. It was that observation that put me right with the idea of dying at a very young age. I rather liked the idea that when I passed I would get a very ornate box with satin pillows and loads of flowers to see me out of this world, and they'd better not forget the finger sandwiches!

I don't know if it was those early experiences with death, the people whom I never personally met but was happy to see off to the next life, that provided me a safe distance with which to process mortality, but I'm so thankful for them. Since girlhood death has fascinated and confounded me, really touched me, time and time again. Whether it's contemplating the act of dying, a light-hearted conversation with friends that somehow turns to the serious business of the afterlife, or the few dearly departed that were a direct personal loss, there is part of me that embraces the poignancy of a final goodbye.

A couple of nights ago the little old Baptist lady who woke up at 4am most mornings to toil over bourbon balls and pralines for the candy shop passed away. She never took a sip of the bourbon she so generously poured in each confection, and as I learned from her daughter at the visitation tonight, she took extra care to wrap each empty bottle in the paper bag it came in, diligently concealing it in the bottom of her trash can. She was a tiny woman with permed hair that was maintained once a week for Lord knows how many years. She always called me Laurie, but I liked that. Tonight I passed through the familiar floral hallway, traipsing over mint green carpet in to a room that was simply labeled "Eva." She laid expressionless beneath the satin covered interior of the casket lid, which was embroidered with praying hands. Though her taut face and deflated little body didn't quite bear the resemblance of the smiling woman I remembered in the photograph next to her resting place, Eva was there. Her daughter rose to meet us with grateful hugs and Eva was all around us. She was there in the look of peace in her daughter's eyes and in the smiles and banter that filled that small room.

Funerals always make me think back to a one-act play written by members of my high school's theatre company. The play is about a student who is a bit of an outsider at school, quiet, feels misunderstood and knows few friends. He dies at the climax of the play and spends the falling action watching his own funeral, commenting on the absurdity of the teachers' grief, roused to anger over classmates that once teased him, who now hovered over his lifeless body weeping and consoling one another. "You didn't know me! You didn't even talk to me!" he shouts. "Why do you care now?" The play, hauntingly, has no resolution. In the self-importance of my teenage years I remember thinking, "Yeah! They were so cruel to him! They don't have a right to this grief! They don't have a right to use this person they don't even know as some throw-away emotional vehicle!" But now, I kind of get it. People touch each other in ways they don't realize, sometimes in ways those around them don't realize. Grief can be about anything, not just saying goodbye, and conversely, saying goodbye does not always give rise to sorrow. To me, that is the essence, and the importance of this ritual we call "visitation" and "funeral." It's selfish, maybe, but it's a process of finding finality, of seeing to believe. It's the experience of knowing that a person is gone.

Tonight, tears did not well in my eyes for the loss of Eva. I looked at her soul's vessel in that box, and I looked at her portrait, and I sent her to that next plane of existence, whatever it may be. I know she is gone, and so I silently thanked her for introducing me to just how creamy and perfect a praline can taste, and I said goodbye.

I know it creeps some people out, the thought of congregating to look at someone and share tearful hugs with people you don't know, but it's a custom that I truly love. And you know the irony in that? The single most instrumental person in cultivating that value in me chose to leave this world as if she'd never existed at all. Cremated with no wake, no funeral, not so much as a living room eulogy, she would have gone without an obituary, too, had it not been a service of the funeral home who came to transport the temple of my Mother. To this day I kind of hate the two men in suits who carried her out, but I couldn't tell you why. "Be gentle!" I wanted to say, but I knew it didn't matter. Cremated. Cremated. The word hardly made sense.

It's the one reality of death that I'll probably never fully grasp or understand. The same little girl who got in a tizzy over finger sandwiches used to beg to go to Cave Hill Cemetery on the weekends to feed the ducks, frolic among the headstones, and take crayon rubbings of those that were beautifully embossed or engraved. We took bouquets to my grandfather's site and I would watch the act of the visit. I would watch other families arrange their bright floral offerings and sit with their loved ones as well. What a wonderful thing it is to be buried! We can still chat, we can laugh and remember and be together again! There's a place for this, how wonderful. I remember thinking that, so many times over and still to this day. How lovely to be remembered, to enjoy some connection that transcends the tangible world.

I can sit with Mom, she's in a little oriental snuff bottle that came from my grandparents' collection and was given to me as a child because I admired it so. But to be honest, I'd rather just sit with her memory or a photo. That snuff bottle and those broad-shouldered men in suits loosely fit in the same category of my strong dislike. I don't know why, but nearly every time I think of my mother I'm hit with pangs of yearning to have a place to meet with her that is permanent, the resting place and commemoration she deserves, whether her humble soul wanted it that way or not.

And then, it's nice, too. All thoughts of her postmortem wishes aside, sometimes it's like she's not gone at all. It's almost just as easy to imagine her roaming the earth somewhere on an extended vacation, due home any time now but at no particular time at all. I'll probably never absent-mindedly wonder how Eva is doing, the closure is there, but I often impulsively think, "Oh! I have to call Mom!" And maybe that was by design, maybe it wasn't that she wanted people to avoid making a fuss but that for once in her life she was afraid of the finality. If a person disappears, are they ever really gone? I like to think that choosing to break the mold of passing that she so profoundly poured my little heart in to was her way of saying, "I'm always here."

And that is why we have never said goodbye.

(Post-Script: Thank you, Eva, not only for the pralines, but for bringing me to a point of peace that in 10 years I had yet to attain)

Better Late Than Never

2012-02-05T18:02:00.000-08:00

By the dawn of each new January I'm usually eager to shed the antlers of the last 12 months in favor of sprouting a more learned and mature set of prongs. It begins with New Year's Eve night, an occasion in which I participate with reckless abandon. When it comes to glitter and dancing and the opportunity to mark the affair with a red hot kiss, I'm all in. In the days and weeks leading up to NYE I'm overwrought with inspiration for the possibilities of the months to come; every aspect of my day to day from news bites to new recipes seems to be riddled with some revelatory quality. Riding high on a dazzling wave of ambition, hope, and childlike enthusiasm, penning resolutions and setting out to achieve them, traditionally, is a breeze. (Here comes the "but....").

The year Twenty Twelve has, until recent hours, been woefully lacking in specific purpose. Sure, I've been tossing around resolutions since December... Like they're candy spilling from a piñata; the vessel is abused and the contents are so scattered that I grasp at them in a constant frenzy. Moreover, I've wasted countless hours trying to outline said resolutions in terms of some grand elucidation. Everything from the news of the death of a stranger in Austin, TX to photographs of the Chinese New Year have been feeble fodder for contextualizing what I hope to accomplish in this next solar cycle. Know what each of these fleetingly gripping tid bits has in common? None was moving enough to mobilize me to concrete acts of 2012 volition.

Before taking this to its turning point (can you feel the perspective shifting?) I have one more confession to make... I love wine. What was once an innocent vehicle of post-work relaxation has metamorphosed in to a serious dulling agent. No, I'm not sitting on my couch punch-drunk and sloppy, but I am far more prone to just sitting on the couch. That's it. Happily lulled, curled up under a blanket cuddling the laptop, I've grown accustomed to spending my evenings refreshing Facebook and scouring the net for beautiful things to dream about as the moon illuminates my tired silhouette through the back door and I develop my Pinterest catalog. How easy it is to believe that good living is pinning photos to a virtual bulletin board of hopes and dreams when it's so darn comfy to do so! Shame on me for giving in to such sloth.

It's no secret to anyone who has taken a few mindless moments to read my blog entries, I am an avid proponent of relaxation, of time to pause, of leading a well-paced life. However, I'm afraid that somewhere along this path to eternal peace I've managed to lull myself a little too deeply. Oh, it's quite lovely and important to grant myself the gift of doing nothing, but only after engaging in a host of fulfilling somethings. Simple things, like time to exercise or do yoga, like waking up early enough to enjoy breakfast (and a healthy metabolism) at home, like writing and crafting and reading, like even having the energy to do those things, all of these are important to the psyche, and they're the stuff of earning the right to relax.

I'm not sure I would have been able to understand my New Year's malaise in these terms had it not been for a dear old friend and the recent launch of her first blog Breakfast in the Bay Window And I should have known all along that it's the minute details of being human that I find most reanimating, that reflect the most potential, but this year I struggled to discover it until she went public with eloquently simple accounts of her days in Brooklyn, in particular, the beautiful breakfasts that begin her day. Simple pleasures. I took one look at her spoon collection (a grapefruit spoon, a table spoon, a teaspoon, a spatula...) and immediately understood that in the lollygagging of recent months I've forgotten to acknowledge those otherwise inconsequential elements of the daily grind. In the exact instance of this epiphany I experienced the New Year. The adrenaline of the flood. The desire to do rather than to be, no matter how modest the doing may be.

The older I get the more I accept that malleability is the essence of life, so let's just call this a cursory list of actions planned in carving the marble of Little Laura 2012... (Only a month late, right?)

1. Write write write! This will be at the top of my list from now until the day my last lucid brain cell surrenders to senility. Even then, I hope I have the motor skills and vocabulary to compose completely out of my brain, whether it's coherent thoughts or complete lunacy. Some people look to pyschedelics to unravel the meta-mysteries that are all folded up and buried within their core, others rely on therapy to make sense of limitations, attributes, and struggles that are beyond their own resolution, and I am not one to judge either of these methods of self-realization. I think every mind is a labyrinth, and we either learn how to walk the path or we spin 'round senseless in a constant back peddle. What I have known as early as the first time my tiny hand wrapped around a pencil and formed a complete written sentence is that the more I express myself through language, the more introspectively productive I become. It doesn't have to be shared, it doesn't have to be brilliant. It just has to be written in to existence.

2. Purge and Reinvent! I cherish every last shred of evidence that I have roamed the Earth for 28 years. I treat my lifetime like a museum, building exhibits full of little artifacts as phases fade and are reinvented. Does that mean it's important or constructive to love a box if letters that sit on a top shelf in my closet, overflowing with names and stories I can barely recall? Does that mean I really need the stickers and patches I amassed 15 years ago roaming Bardstown Road as a baby punk-hopeful? It's ok to pick and choose what constitutes a tangible time capsule and what can be relegated to fuzzy vacuous memory. Sometimes making a little extra room is all it takes to invite new adventures in to your life.

3. Do! My whole family, on both sides, works with their hands. My mother's parents were gemologists and jewelers, a profession and passion later inherited by my uncle; my Mother and I took weekly trips to the hobby shops in search of new crafts and activities; my father supported a family, purchased a comfortable home, and financed two cars and endless luxuries on the blue collar salary of a lineman for Bellsouth, building hundreds of networks of phone service around the city for 37 year before retiring. It is literally in my DNA to occupy these tiny ten digits. Delectable dishes, obsessive repurposing, handmade furnishings and a never-ending queue of weekly projects are just the medicine for a complacent routine.

4. Achieve! I believe a recently younger version of myself once asserted, "Put plainly, I don't aspire." Not to be taken out of context, I was referring to aspirations born of riches and power. Still, what was I thinking?! What a ridiculously hopeless thing to say, whether articulated with tongue in cheek or not. I aspire. I want to do something extraordinary this year. I don't mean saving lives, running for office, or accumulating unplanned wealth, I just want to make meaningful strides toward the next phase in my life. I want to bid adieu to 2012 feeling a better sense of direction and establishment.

5. Save! In a continuum of importance, money would be on the very lowest end of my priorities. Still, it's a continuum, and with every low there's a high point. I'm dying to travel.. Like, yearning. A couple of years ago Sean and I took an epic 3 week road trip that expanded my mind, stretched my limitations, and broadened my priorities and aspirations like a sling shot; I became over-extended and energized, and when let go my mind and spirit soared to indiscernible destinations. We're always embarking on little quests and close-to-home exploits, but I want to see the world with my partner in crime. This year I want to find the discipline to save money, looking toward the future and all the misadventures it may hold. (Oh, and a new-used car would be a bonus).

6. Be Well! This isn't about putting batteries in the scale or counting calories. It's about finding natural energy and illuminating clarity. Remember that aforementioned wine vice? It must be tamed in favor of more active hobbies. This will come naturally when Spring is sprung and being indoors gives me figurative hives, but in the mean time, I have to get my butt in to gear! Downtown Y, I'm going to milk you for that $--.00/month I've superfluously paid up until now! Fruits and veggies take warning, I'm climbin' in your windows, snatchin' yo nutrients up! This isn't entirely mind over matter... My body is craving meditation, stretching, muscle mass, and a smorgasbord of healthy feasting.

7. Grow! The only real resolution I have this year is to constantly tug at the indices of my mind, body, and heart, to expand and grow in any and every way the universe offers up, to live every day knowing that my daily activities are contributing to realizing the best version of myself. At the core, isn't that what resolutions are all about anyway? Whether they're superficial (I'll go to the gym, I'll drink less), spiritual (I'll spend more time in meditation), or altruistic (I'll listen more to my friends, I'll be more sensitive to the needs of others), all resolutions are made in the spirit of attaining goodness.

This year, at least in the coming months, is devoted to rediscovering the small stuff, to taking an active role in pampering myself every day with simple gestures that require special care, while recognizing the occasional value of granting a mindlessly lethargic reprieve. Oh, and all that adult stuff like saving money and buying curtains, too.

And I Can See For Miles and Miles and Miles

2011-09-07T16:56:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-08T12:14:00.001-07:00

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?

2011-04-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

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

2011-01-11T16:38:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-08T10:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Stillness and Wisdom

2010-08-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

I am lying in the park and the day is very still; the kind of day when there is no heat and there is no cool, nothing damp and nothing crisp. There is nothing particular on the brain, either, but a persistent urge to write tugs away at my subconscious. So I am here, with nothing to say except that I am here.

It is too warm for this fleece blanket spread out between my belly and the earth. I unfolded it here, in front of this rotting tree with its intertwining trunks all moss covered and hollow, because it is sufficiently near and far. I can lye out long and pretend to be alone, lulled by the low hum of traffic on the loop, the faint cries of laughter from children being pushed on swings with creaky rusted chains. I can stop and think only of myself. I am sentient, not reflective. The tops of my feet are sticky and cool against the grass and clover. My back aches from arching it. There are ants marching on a biologically determined journey across my calves.

Do people watch me? Are my shorts too short? Are microscopic organisms crawling in crevices of my computer that will later zap its jungle of microchip innards? The questions come to mind, but I don’t bother to consider the answers.

What do I look like when I have nothing on my mind? What expression is there on my face when I am laying under a rotting tree on a day that is just a day? I take pictures with the camera on my laptop. Is it narcissism when I begin attempting to perfect the look of feeling like I don’t look or feel like anything, and does it then cease to be nothing and turn in to something? Later I will kick myself for humoring existential nonsense.

I came here to do nothing, but feel pressed to do something, so I’ll tell a story.

***

Once upon a time there were two best friends, only children who loved one another like sisters. When they grew up tall one moved to a shiny city and the other started investing in postcards. Greetings and well wishes were exchanged through index cards boasting pretty pictures and postage stamps. There were highly anticipated visits. Coveted tokens and photographs. Then one day there weren’t any more. Mail got slow. Fizzle fizzle plop plop. One girl missed the other very badly, and I suspect the other was caught lonesome sometimes, too. But when things fall the way of the wind they seem untouchable. Nothing bad had happened, times were times and things were things. Better left alone.

Then one day they both girls learned that sometimes phone lines can be very still for a very long time without changing much of anything at all. One visited the other. Surprise! Long black hair, rosey cheeks, a honey sweet voice. Distance melted. They embraced in a familiar hug around the waist, they exchanged signature giggles. There was an evening of gin and tonics, three hours to catch up on the last three years. Upon departure they were all smiles and relief. “Love you, old gal!”

We didn’t attempt to explain the lacuna. We know the way of postcards far better than we know the way of the wind.

***

Now… What was I saying?

Riches

2010-08-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

I have a gripping sense of sentimentality. Not the kind that is content to ruminate quietly over memories; the kind that assigns significance to the most insignificant token. There's a letter box on my bookshelf that contains every letter and postcard I have received in the last 12 years. Though its contents have waned in light of email and Facebook, its place on the shelf is comforting. I have items of clothing that are more akin to cheesecloth than cotton that I I just can't part with. My closet overfloweth with photographs. Literally every artifact that finds a way in to my life will be hard pressed to find a way back out.

If my attachment to stuff ended at heirlooms and nostalgia laden gifts this might not be a problem. However, I have an affinity for objects in general, and the older and stranger they come, the more firmly they reside in my heart.

I'm thankful that my material lusting ends at the dusty shelves of thrift stores and the well-manicured lawns of garage sales, otherwise I'd be flat broke (and probably a well-monied pompous jerk with too many cars and shiny things). Still, I bear the cross of a hoarder's soul. It doesn't take much foresight to imagine the ebb and flow of possessions that will shift through future closets, garages, shelves, and cabinets... All of it piling up at the yearning of my happy little trinket fingers.

Trinkets.

If you are left knowing only one thing about me, you should know that I adore a good trinket.

Today I made a couple of pairs of earrings out of some scrap fabric, and as I was cleaning up the mess of stray fibers, yarn, and earring parts, I took particular notice of how beautiful the pile was. That careless heap on the carpet summoned the most unconscious of smiles. My extra sharp and heavy duty fabric shears, colorful piles of cotton, unraveled yarn, an open sewing box.. It was hard to make myself clean it up. And so, I grabbed my camera, and began snapping away to document all my favorite trinkets.

A rack of thread hangs right above my sewing table. The colors, the spool sizes, the different types of spool... They're full of promise, they beckon me to make things... That's justification enough to keep them on display; objet d'art!

Oh boy does my jewelry ever scream for organization. Though I sometimes feel there must be a responsibility to keep them stored properly that is intrinsic to their charm and delicacy, I secretly love the messy pile on my dresser. Sometimes the way a pair of earrings mingles with a bracelet gives me an idea to combine the two that I never would have come up with otherwise! This photo is full of good trinkets... Just beyond the jewelry you might catch a peek of a pair of feet...

Those belong to one of my Margaret Keane big-eyed girls! Of all the trinkets I own, big-eyed girls are probably the only thing abundant and diverse enough to constitute a collection. I purchased my first one, an Eve painting, at the Nearly New Shop when I was 14. Thirteen years later, I'm still a sucker for doe eyes.

To the left of the little feet in the jewelry picture is an old old cigar box. My granddaddy smoked Dutch Masters for as long as anyone can remember, and he always saved the boxes for me. As a kid I had stacks of boxes containing my rubberband, acorn, and rock collections. Mother and I would take a walk together nearly every day, and by the time we rounded the block my pockets were already bulging with new finds. I probably would have worked on bird feather, leaf and flower petal collections as well, had it not been for my mother's reluctant ability to say, "Enough is enough."

Ok, so I was passing the full length mirror and I couldn't resist a self portrait. I was feelin' cute, what can I say? The trinkets to the left of the mirror belong to Sean; piles of records and CDs that are probably not catalogued for the same reason that my jewelry is one giant tangle of metal. Two peas in a pod, for sure.
It's a Where's Waldo of trinkets in this one.. The two portraits hanging above my thread in the background are of an African American boy and girl. They almost look Baptismal. I love the innocence of a child's portrait, and the kitschy way they were printed on wood blocks. My Nalgene bottle is on the sewing desk, one of ten or more peppered through our apartment, refrigerator, and cars. The year before we started dating, after a conversation in which I lamented the scarcity of old-school Nalgenes in the wake of the BPA hubbub, Sean tracked down five or six of the colorful water bottles for my birthday and sent them to me at the candy shop; pink, blue, yellow, green, and fuchsia all with contrasting lids. I probably shouldn't drink out of them, but I love them so. Sean's banjo and Amish hat are to my right, and both make me endlessly happy in their quiet representation of Appalachia. Finally, the cardboard deer head protruding from the wall is just like taxidermy (which I love, see below!!) but without the dead animal. Right? That's some Laura logic for ya.
Ok, so in light of my obsession with child portraits and big eyed girls, it's only natural that I love to snatch up bookends of child busts. These cats were acquired at an antique shop in Westpoint Kentucky on our way home from a hiking trip. The building is an old motel circa 1800s. The floors creak and the original wood bends under foot, and there's a spirit in that place that is palpable. If I could hoard old musty buildings, I'd do that too.
This will forever be my life's motto. Simplicity and love preached through a porcelain homage to the bluegrass, meant to be kept in the kitchen where togetherness happens. I plucked this from a general store in Cave City, which happens to be my favorite little town on Earth. Put plainly, Cave City is trinket Heaven nestled in a universe of oddity. God Bless.
Bird anything always constitutes a good trinket. The bird glasses at the tip top of that green cabinet were my mother's. We made root beer floats in them a lot, and sometimes she'd use one for her iced tea. But one bundle of birdware wasn't enough! When I saw the little china tea set at the Goss Ave. Antique Mall I had each piece mentally wrapped in newspaper and out the door before Sean could utter the words, "Uh oh..."

The green cabinet is a gem, and a beacon of self-restraint. It was in the window of the Seek and Find with its doors open and facing the street. What caught my eye? Retro decals of big-eyed farmer children, faded and worn across the front. I wanted it. I needed it. I bought it, and later forced myself to sand away the children, match the paint color, and re-do the doors in a crackle finish. Lastly, that painting on the wall was done by an eighty year old woman with Downs Syndrome. We acquired it on a Fat Friday Trolley Hop at the Mariposa Place. A photo of her smiling face, all animated with an endearing quality of enthusiasm, is all it took to will a twenty from my purse.

This little gnome is hiding in a bushy, vine-like plant that Sean received as a house warming gift in 2003. His mama gave it to him... :) It's fun to imagine such a fellow living in the thick of those leaves, even if this guy is inanimate.
I'm a garbage picker. When junk day comes around I spend wide-eyed hours scouring the alleys for a new treasure. The only way to properly embark on such a hunt is to crank up some good old timey country and imagine myself bouncing around in a rusty pickup truck. This box was sitting behind a house close to the candy shop, and pulled on my heartstrings as much as it did my trinket fingers. Someone saved that box, year after year, packing away the seasonal curtains with meticulous care. Though the box is brittle, yellowed, and torn, there was a person who couldn't dream of storing their curtains in anything different. I probably would have taken the box on that notion alone, and then I peeked inside...
An old candy box full of poker chips and an assortment of gauzy summer curtains, each tagged with a safety pinned note of which window it belonged to. The curtains smell musty, but sadly, also freshly laundered. Someone cared for these. It was my duty to give them a new home.
Izze isn't exacly a trinket, but I prize the pink on her nose and paw paws just as I do my mother's tattered high heels.
This whirlygig is the Holy Grail of trinkets. Last summer Sean and I passed through Lucama, NC on our way home from the Outer Banks. Our mission, to find Vollis Simpson, a 91 year old man who, over the course of twenty five years, has constructed the most magical farm of windmills and whirlygigs you could possibly imagine. The town of Lucama is literally as big as the Whirlygig Farm that calls it home; we drove on a one lane dirt road for three miles aptly named "Vollis Simpson Way," to reach this hidden wonderland. Marveling at spinning metal structures covered in shiny bicycle reflectors, it was impossible not to feel overwhelming gratitude for the folk art genius of people who create solely from the visions in their heads and the scraps in their garage. I was in love, like my soul found a home, mesmorized by the glistening universe overhead. A few minutes in to our visit a black pickup truck came sputtering up a hidden lane and in to the barn across the way. An old shriveled man in overalls carrying a banana and a bag of pork rinds got out, gave us one look, and said, "Weelllp. Looks like it's gonna rain. Y'all better come here and take a look at the rest of it." With gaping mouths and gracious hearts we tiptoed the lanes of his workshop, where hundreds of desktop whirlygigs and hairbrained sculptures piled on top of eachother in smiling, reflector laden wonderment. Vollis unveiled his entire world to us, complete strangers, without so much as a second thought. He sat in front of a Rube Goldberg-esque fan under a hot tin roof as rain danced in a song overhead, slowly chewing his banana, and gave us the genesis story of his farm. Mr. Simpson is a genius, a gentle man with a busy imagination. With the last seventy five dollars in my wallet I purchased a pint-sized whirlygig of my own, created from a family heirloomed antique wine goblet. I parted not only with an original piece of folk art, but with piece of Vollis' past. It was one of the most magical days of my entire life.
This squirrel friend was a white elephant gift at a Christmas party thrown by people I'd never met. Clearly, I came to the party white elephant-less, nothing to contribute to the exchange. Though I was slightly jealous of the jovial folk who were opening fake mustaches and clown-sized sunglasses, my trinket fingers managed to keep their cool... Until someone opened a gun totin' taxidermy squirrel!! My desire was murderous, I would have done anything to get that thing home and on my wall. Luckily, all I had to do was pout and look and it longingly, and Sean bartered it away from a very nice gal who was sympathetic to my hankerin'.
After spending weeks coveting a giant pufferfish lamp in the window of a local vintage store, Sean bestowed me with one of my own on my 25th birthday! I have a thing for taxidermy... which may or may not bode well for posthumous fate of our kitty and sugar glider.. ;)
The Kennedys are not creepy children, but their busts were too tempting to pass up for six bucks. I think I love the copper color as much as I love the ridiculousness of the object. Some extremely patriotic soul of the sixties, with very little money to buy truly presidential home decor, probably used these to bracket their volumes of Reader's Digest.

The antlers to the right of the Kennedys came from our recent trip out West. On the Utah/Nevada border we encountered a little table of trinkets; Navajo pottery, books, native jewelry, and a few sets of antlers. Everything was marked with a price, but there was no one to collect the fee. Instead, a coffee can beckoned souvenir money on the honor system. After dejected trips to countless roadside flea markets and general stores hocking antlers for sixty bucks a pair, I gladly dropped 8 dollars in the can for mine.
Peppers aren't really trinkets, either... But they're beautiful, and delicious, and I'm so proud of my busy orange bells!
This guy is the best Christmas present ever to grace the glowing underbelly of my tree. He's not just a somberly creepy, bowling pin shaped plush doll; he's a confidant, a cheerleader, a friend. He's My Therapy Buddy, and when you squeeze his foot he reminds you in the most soothing voice that, "Everything is going to be allllright." I was introduced to him several years ago on the show American Inventor. His creator is a total freak, and pitched MTB to the judges as an adult therapy tool. The arms are long and the hands velcro so that MTB can hug you. I'm not kidding. See for yourself.. My life is complete.

I am superstitious to the core, and fascinated by paranormal activity. As a child I spent countless hours channeling elusive spirits from the depths of my Milton Bradley ouija board. Two falls ago I got it in my head that I should start a ouija board collection. This one is handmade by a self-proclaimed Wiccan. It came with specific instructions for safely summoning lost souls and has been blessed by a warlock who sells his boards on Ebay. Am I as loony as he is for respecting his unabashed show of delusion? Totally nuts for wanting this thing in my home? I dunno, why don't you ask the undead?
Worry dolls chase away the blues and the bothersome. Whisper to them what pains you, tuck them under your pillow, and wake up to a brand new trouble-free day! I got my first set when I was on a fifth grade trip to San Antonio, TX to meet my ESL pen pal at a sister school. One night our pen pals took us to an authentic fiesta. Here is what I remember: the brattiest girl in our class was attacked by fire ants, there were a lot of drunk hombres in cowboy hats, and some guy was peddling worry dolls and friendship bracelets. One of each please.
We have two of these owl bells. They came from the gift shop of the Field Museum in Chicago. Couldn't pass 'em up!
The bathroom window makes me endlessly happy. It gets full natural sun all day long which looks so whimsical shinin' down on my plant and my birdies. The birds are in contrasting greens, little fairytale characters shaded by a jade bonsai. Green is my favorite color.
This pair of golden birds spoke to me from a bottom shelf in Unique Thrift. With each new abode they find a place to soar on the bathroom wall. We migrate together.
My soap dish may look a little cruddy, but it's one of the things I'd save first in a fire. This was Grandmommy's bathroom soap dish, and though it now cradles my face soap, every time I look at it I'm afforded an olfactory flashback to her pink bar of Dove.
Another Unique find, and another trinket that comes with my territory. I identify with some objects to the point that they're little extensions of my very person... This key is one of those things. I can't explain it, I just love it. I have it propped against our lovely bathroom window... Glass doesn't come any more perfect than the textured retro privacy glass.
Yellowed pages, inscriptions and library tags, ornate bindings, vintage children's illustrations... I get lost in antique book rooms. Lately I've been having fun with using old books to create new art! There are all kinds of wacky page folding techniques that yield really cool geometric designs, and once you've folded all the pages, the book stays flat and open. Just drill a couple of holes on either side of the binding, hang it by some twine, and viola! Nerdy chic. Books with lots of illustrations, hymnals, and ones written in other languages work really well for this because bits and pieces of the contents are visible when the pages fan out. A word of warning, though.. If you're prone to attachment, there is a delicate balance between choosing really great books and just so-so books for your page folding pleasure. The books below are a couple that I like so well I can't quite follow through with the transformation. The covers aren't all that snazzy, but the pages are begging to remain intact.

Maybe it was all those childhood years riding along the flea market with mother and grandmommy in my wagon, maybe it was weekend yard saling excursions with my mother and aunt, maybe an affinity for one man's junk is coded in to my DNA... My grandparents collected precious stones, jade orientals, mud men, and snuff bottles. My mother proudly displayed cat tea pots and vintage glass lady shoes. My aunt's home was decorated in hundreds of porcelain busts of sophisticated ladies with long eyelashes. Uncles Melvin loves Navajo and Native American art. My father collects coins and model trains. This was inescapable, I was born to delight in it all.

The Gentle Hearts Wear the Dusty Boots

2010-06-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I return home from having fulfilled my duties, obligations, and desires in the larger world I feel completely discombobulated. Fried, distant, mute. I sit and try to quiet the inner struggle between harnessing my usual calm and acting on an invasive sense of urgency. Clearly, I am not cut out for tasks, for problem solving, or for responsibilities that extend beyond my own sense of value and importance. Don't mistake this for selfishness, though as an only child I'm sure I'm often guilty of that, too. If it must have a title, which in an age of expediency, consumption, and job identity I assume it must, I'm comfortable with being accused of a mild case of good old fashioned laziness. Or maybe Malvina Reynolds sang it best when she proudly crooned, "I don't mind failing in this world."
Plainly, I don't aspire. Not to status or power or money or a job title that makes people turn green with envy. I don't even necessarily aspire to be a master of the things I love (gardening, writing, cooking, dancing). In fact, I think a degree of authenticity and joy is lost in pursuit of creating or performing perfectly. Through my frustration, I find it kind of thrilling to wonder if that one roma tomato that is rotting on its bottom will spoil the whole vine, and I've retained enough optimism to believe that it won't.
Having just attained my Bachelors degree, regulars at work and friends of the family love to ask what I plan for the future. When I mention graduate school I'm further pressed to name what spectacularly lucrative career path I'll choose with my educational background. And that is when I laugh and admit, "Probably none." I'm often met with a rolling eye (usually stuck behind a computer screen or flecked with jadedness and impervious skepticism), cordially reminded that if we all felt like I do about the world, nothing would get done. Understood. I should take this moment to thank every last person that goes through the motions of a job they despise, tolerates people that secretly unnerve them, or labors over the hard problems in the interest of the common good. We are all that person at one time or another, and it is certainly a noble and difficult thing to be. I should then also apologize for not being willing to burden myself with things that make me miserable when at all avoidable. My motivations are not such that it's necessary to toil and drudge. When I have no choice but to bite the bullet and muddle through something intolerable, I am also intolerably sorry for the unmotivated, grumpy person I become. My hat is sincerely off to anyone who lives life that way, regardless of the reason they do it.
Here is the part where I fully admit to selfishness; I am writing this from my deck, on a still evening with a mild breeze and a muted, almost white sun that is incandescently veiled by thin grey clouds. It is just me and my plants, and a couple of culinary magazines that will guide my dinner preparations. Oh, and a glass of wine. A small one, I promise, because it is only 5:30. I have done absolutely nothing for the last two and a half hours aside from laying motionless in the mid-day sun, admiring the height of my lavender, congratulating my oregano on a most spectacular scent, and occasionally picking up a magazine or the fourth volume of Anais Nin's diaries (I read one volume every summer to retrain my romantic senses after a long dark winter). What I don't earn in money I pay myself in leisure, and a fabulous dinner.
Here is the part where I am unselfish again; my basil plants need me. Without my epicurean fortitude their brilliant green leaves, which are now so bushy that they conceal an intricate system of 18 inch stalks, would begin to yellow at the base and wither all around. Each morning they greet me with the buds of little flowers extended in over-achievement, and each morning I pinch the foreboding blossoms and toss them over the rail, asking the overburdened herb to make it just one more day. Spicy, Italian, and Lime have all obliged, though growing more top heavy and crowded with each new dawn. It is with their best interest at heart that I plan on spending my evening in the kitchen whipping up pestos of all ethnicities and influences from their pruned leaves.
At heart, my basil is a lot like me. Unwilling to grow so tall that it puts stress on its very foundation, in tune with the capacity of its roots to live and work and grow before dying altogether. And the really interesting thing about the nature of my basil is that the more I trim it back, save it from its own show of hubris, the faster it comes back; fuller, greener, and with larger, more fragrant leaves.
Our symbiosis far more enriching than that of the anxious laborer to the relentlessly laborious. And so, I make time to shed the furrowed brow and elevated heart rate that characterize importance, immediacy, and productivity, in favor of the nothing-in-particular, the whatever-comes-my-way, a languid state of existing wholly within the senses.

Good things always come.

Fragments. Or, On the Subject of Organic Matter.

2010-04-01T15:48:00.001-07:00

I believe in fragments and fluidity. My best days are the ones with no punctuation at all, later recounted in little episodes. Yesterday was one of my best days.

Every morning I drive through the country's largest collection of Victorian mansions. Take a minute to consider that; a permanent, living, functional museum. A civic treasure. Ornate and proud, sturdy, each with distinct character, artifacts in their own right. I rarely consider the historic magnitude of my daily commute, the stories and voices that must haunt those street and alley. I whiz right past. Springtime, however, demands that Old Louisville be recognized for the colorful gem that it is. The avenues are lined in dogwoods and flowering pears, now in full bloom, accentuating the lost and hidden potential of a neighborhood relic of glamour and sophistication.

During lunch I found a tree of my own, positioned in the direction of the sun. I nestled in to a concave nook of the trunk, perfectly fit to the width of my back, and stretched my legs out long across dirt and mulch. My sandals slid off my feet and I pointed my toes. My skin was sticky and damp, the backs of my calves melted in to the earth. My hair was blowing in the same direction as the grass, strands and blades wistfully one long line of motion in the breeze. I let the straps down to my dress, careful not to let them slip so far as to give passers by a cheap thrill.

I forgot to eat. Blue skies and the scent of fresh mulch will do that to me. Mother Nature must be awfully tired of repressing herself... That cunning seductress bewitches me so easily, and I forget lots of things.

Once home, I ate a late-day breakfast of yogurt, bran, honey, and strawberries on the deck. I was in my undergarments, delirious over the sunshine.

There are several tools one needs to properly enjoy a beautiful day. These things include sunglasses, a book, a full bottle of water, a pillow, a lounge chair, and the absence of time keepers, ringing gadgets, and restrictive clothing.

I watched a single lucent petal surrender to the naviagtion of the wind, swirling in straighaways and switchbacks, until inviting itself to a place of rest in my breakfast bowl. I know not where it landed, only that it found a more organic destination in my stomach. This led me to consider the thousands of particles of organic matter that go unnoticed, quietly disguising themselves in my food and water day in and day out. That's ok, I like pollenated water and protein fortified snacks.

The deck shakes in the wind. When a strong breeze catches this creaky structure of weathered boards and nails it creates a speed bump effect underfoot. Same thing happens when someone is coming up the stairs. Sometimes I wonder, being on the third floor, if this thing is properly attached to the building, or if it's a dutiful free agent. I like to think of it as the latter, out of a love for old stuff and the imperfect. Anyway, the shaking is good, it has the potential to notify me of foreign footsteps. Paired with an impressive obstacle course of stacked flower pots at the top of the stairs, I have a fool proof security system. No one will get past me.

Sometimes, laying back in my chair with the sun blazing over my closed eyelids, my body occupies a position worthy of a Mayan petroglyph. I imagine my shape representing an animal, or a revered symbol, baked on the face of an ancient ruin; legs bent outward at the knee to form a diamond between my lower torso and toes, a second diamond formation pronounced between shoulders and fingertips, a pair of bent elbows with arms extended overhead.

Other times I imagine myself at the edge of the ocean. The scent of Aveda sun veil mist on my hair is sufficiently summery enough to evoke an olfactory interpretation of $5 sunscreen. The breeze, cutting through the solar rays, catches the cool spot where perspiration collects at the nape of my neck, and a redeeming sense of calm comes over my entire being. The whir of Bardstown Road traffic in the distance can, by a liberal stretch of the imagination, account for the ocean's song. Of course, crashing waves and V8 engines sound nothing alike, which pocks my reverie, just a bit.

It is entirely possible to know the time of day by the position of the sun. I can usually pin it down to the hour, the half hour with a little practice in sunbathing. As a girl from the city, I find this to be a miraculous discovery, a grand epiphany born of my love for the outdoors. I turn in my chair like a human sundial, until shadows cover my feet, the heat is reduced to gentle warmth, and I concede to the evening.

I began to realize after abandoning my perch yesterday that in a month or so my color will blend with the terra cotta pots that line the rail of my afternoon retreat. Eventually my skin won't pale to their bold clay tone. My legs will respond with a showy bronze hue of their own, blending with the clay as if to say to people below, "It's only us chickens up here." And it is. Their fresh green contents will hurl leafy stems skyward to obscure any additional vantage from below. I and my scheming brain of dinner ideas and miscellany projects will be concealed by a primitive system of camouflage.

Encounters

2010-03-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

I slammed the door to the trusty Volvo this morning in the same fashion as most mornings; in a rush because I am perpetually late, jittery and working on my second cup of coffee, flailing to untuck my hair from under the strap of my shoulder bag while simultaneously trying to clip on my keys and insert iPod earbuds. I walk in a hurried shuffle, the worn spots at the heels of all my shoes indicative of my aggressive heel to toe stride, the scuffed toes indicative of my absent-minded lumbering through mud, gravel, and any other ground cover paving a more expedient route than the sidewalk. Today I made it to the median on Cardinal Boulevard, still fumbling with trinkets and adjusting clothing extremities, and was nearly knocked sideways by a student shuttle that bid me farewell in a cloud of kicked-up dust and black smog. After a few hastened strides I recovered from an assailing lungful of debris, then suddenly stopped dead in my tracks, arrested by a fragrant Southern perfume. Literally, I stopped in the traffic lane, intoxicated by a familiar Spring pungency that sends my little heart leaping...

Onion Grass. God Bless.

A curious motorist had stopped before me, I being the barrier between he and a green light. He didn't look angry, he looked intrigued, maybe even sympathetic. I stood with a wide-eyed sugary grin, still unable to connect my sudden euphoria with the scent whistling beneath my nose. I offered an appreciative wave in the direction of the halted driver, which I can only imagine came across as the looney gesture of a dazed Kool-aid drinker.

Onion Grass.

If there is an Earthly representation of sunshine I think these thick, sticky blades must be the chosen ones. That scent evokes childhood memories of the stubborn family cat happily munching and regretfully regurgitating, grass stains on white tights that I didn't want to wash off, lightning bugs and humidity, red hot shoulders exposed by the sunroof, sunglasses and Easter Sundays past. I can feel myself soaring on the breeze that alerts my senses to knots of onion grass, in fact, there are probably a few patches adorning the hedges of my soul.

A full day of classes went by in an unusually painless sweep of time. Eager to spend a little time on the deck, I sped home at 5:15 with the sunroof back, already sinking mentally in to a sunshine, wine, and good book induced coma. Those fifteen minutes between me and outdoor serenity unfolded like a flipbook; stoplight, go, stoplight, go, park, door, bags down, glass, pour, book, backdoor, ahhhhhhh........

CHIVES!

Could it be? Realizing that I'd made a hasty exit to the deck without my sunglasses and water, I looked up from my book after just a few minutes of settling in, my gaze met by a family of lime green sprouts. This pot was in a line of six or seven left out all winter to brave and bear the burden of frost and snow. Each terra cotta vestibule shamefully displayed a dry straw-like smattering of dead stalks and leaves, but not this. I leaned over cautiously, reminding myself not to get too hopeful. My thumb and index finger closed around one of the blades and gave a twist to indicate texture and release aroma. A tiny hollow tube of bright green snapped off, daring me to take a whiff.

Chives.

Like a surprise birth announcement, the descendants of last year's modest crop pulled off a striking reveal with youthful enthusiasm in their stinky little lime green jackets. With maternal enthusiasm I ran in for the camera, twice forgetting the water and sunglasses.

There are reasons to celebrate every which way I turn during these warm months. Animals to speak to, blue skies to covet, twigs, branches, mosses, leaves, petals, flowers, and fungi with shapes and colors deserving of human marvel. Little ethereal encounters that bring me a little closer to a realized self.

All the colors are of love.

2010-02-28T12:14:00.000-08:00

I don't like to be cold. In fact, let it suffice to say that if I knew I had to live through an eternal winter, I'd rather not live at all. My muscles seize and my blood vessels constrict to create a persistent numbing effect in my toes. My face scrunches and scowls instinctively against the persistent chill, which penetrates my psyche, making room for discontent and ugliness to nestle in where happiness usually resides. Winter's venomous bite doesn't just kill my spirit, it relegates sunshine to the farthest edges of the Earth, leaving my skin chapped and begging for color, my body yearning for Vitamin D. Such deprivation bears spontaneous moments of heavy melancholy, a deep sense of restlessness and incessant discomfort. I feel lost, always tired. I'm even a little sad sometimes, like I've suffered a loss. It's a rare breed of homesickness, this Seasonal Affective Disorder, and my soul is a sad little camper, cold and whimpering for the Sun to come pick her up.
But I digress, I shouldn't be so melodramatic. This winter has been the coldest and snowiest in recent memory, and I am poised to emerge from it with my emotional well-being and physical health intact. There were even days that some twisted masochistic impulse came over me and I ventured out, wide-eyed and eager to immortalize the snow day at shutter speed. I enjoyed the momentary delight of being concealed under six layers of clothing and various forms of wrap and cover. My eyes marveled at the the landscape, newly upholstered in sparkling white cushions. My senses were lulled by the muffled hush of the wind, which failed to rustle the trees that slept in icy cocoons. Even while nursing my parched skin, withered and scaly from gusts of dry air, it is hard to deny that a small appreciation for this season has coaxed its way in to my heart.
Though not completely soured on this year's vicarious trip to the Arctic, I do find it difficult to mend the shreds of motivation and patch the holes of inspiration. When a hunger pang incites volumes of fantastic dinner ideas, the hassle of layering up and trudging through sludge in the grocery store lot is enough for me to settle on a grilled cheese. When I am determined to write a paper or study for an exam, a single gaze out the window at that menacing grey sky makes me sigh and crumple over my own fleeting enthusiasm. A few successful dates with winter are not enough to carry me through. My little routines, the familiarity of my things and my space, the few places I can count on to feel warm and find happiness, those keep my mind grounded and my smile in shape.
Today, despite my best intentions of reading and studying, my concentration is overturned by the restlessness of another dreary day spent cornered on the couch by the space heater. Searching for anything to settle this attention deficit, I have been mindlessly checking my favorite internet haunts; Facebook first, of course, followed by school email and assignment boards, then the news outlets; CNN, The New York Times, NPR. After skimming pages all morning, my vision finally fixed on an image that inspired a little smile to curl up toward my weary eyes, two Indian girls dancing, their faces painted in swirls of pink and green.

The Arts & Life article on NPR.org went on to offer a recipe for a sunshine yellow curry dish to honor the Indian holiday, Holi. Known as the Festival of Colours, people of all Indic faiths and castes celebrate the coming of Spring by painting their skin in colored powders, eating vibrantly colored meals, engaging in revelrous water balloon fights, throwing bonfires in recognition of the triumph of light over dark, good over evil. The celebration begins in the days leading up to the last full moon of the concluding winter month, which marks the first day of Spring. This year, Holi falls on March 1st, tomorrow.
Finally, a little inspiration. Though our Spring is marked by the Vernal Equinox on March 20, I'm going to take a little self-serving liberty on this one and count myself in on the Holi spirit. I'm reanimated by the enthusiasm of this holiday, driven by a sense of renewal and celebration rather than our Western practicality, not just another day on the calendar. Holi is about reconnecting with nature after the long dead winter, ringing in the Spring blossoms by coating yourself and your loved ones in their pigment. Engaging the senses with intense spice, electrifying color, overwhelming love, and the heat and magic of fire... That is how I want to bid the winter months adieu.
And so, tomorrow calls for a brush of Salamander eyeshadow across my hopeful lids, a pout transformed by Beetroot gloss, and a wardrobe that harkens the blooms from their buds. The kitchen will be filled with mustard, tumeric, ginger, and cumin to awaken my senses, and every candle in the house will flicker with the reminder that the light, she is a comin'. I don't care if the wind assaults my Spring invitational with a 30 degree flurry, I'll remember my photographic friends in India who dance and sing over bonfires, painted in Mother Nature's love.

Yonder Voices

2010-01-24T12:07:00.000-08:00

Last April as I was coming home from a walk around the Scenic Loop in Cherokee Park I noticed a street festival on Longest Avenue in front of Heine Brothers. There were childrens' drawings of mountains strung across the street like prayer flags, live music on a stage bisecting the alley, beer and food sales, and mountain advocacy groups tabling in horseshoe formation along the barrier of Bardstown Road. I had the fortune of stumbling across Louisville Loves Mountains Day, an event that celebrates Appalachian culture and mountain life and raises awareness of issues threatening the vitality of the region. As I'm sure was the case for many attendees, this was my first formal introduction to the practice of mountaintop removal. I collected brochures and talked with KFTC members about the pressing nature of this cause, which cultivated my rudimentary support for ending mountaintop removal. I had a beer, socialized with friends who came to check out the festival, and tapped my foot to local music straight through dusk. That evening one of my friends commented, "I come from a family of coal miners. If they saw this they'd all laugh at the city slickers in Louisville trying to teach them how to live. Those communities have no choice, what would that region look like without those jobs? Everyone would be worse off than they already are. Mining is a necessary evil of that economy and way of life, you can't just erase that." In an instant I began questioning what I'd just consigned to. What I was witnessing at the festival; was this a gathering of voices for the voiceless, or a gathering of removed city folk with too much time and money? I realized that I didn't know the answer, I was ignorant to the dynamics of modern Appalachian economics and the environmental concerns of my fellow Kentuckians. Feeling confused, powerless, and angry with myself for being so clueless, my activist inclinations were ignited. I went home vowing to gain some answers. Unfortunately, in the typical fashion of detachment, I left the brochures laying around for a few days until I finally committed them to a place in the closet, and quietly tucked what I'd learned in the back of my mind. It wasn't that I didn't want to become involved, life just happened- studying for finals, working, doing research for classes rather than my own edification, music, drinks, and friends on the weekends- I lost my connection.
Almost a year has passed and still, until this past Saturday, coal issues in Appalachia were a distant glimmer of interest and intrigue in my mind, occasionally kindled by an article in the paper, a Facebook status update, or most recently the KFTC benefit at 21C featuring Jim James and Wendell Berry. On that evening Sean and I signed up to do a Mountain Witness Tour, an opportunity to visit Appalachia for a firsthand experience of mountaintop removal and its consequences on the culture and community. I will admit that even in the space between the fundraiser and the tour, I did very little aside from studying photographs to familiarize myself with the practice. I admit this for two reasons. One, it is the truth. Two, this is characteristic of an ugly facet of human nature, to be self-absorbed and immediate, unconsciously relegating peripheral concerns to matters of convenience.

Saturday was the day that forever absolved me of that habit. The following is my account of the Mountain Witness Tour in Whiteburg, KY on January 23, 2010.

We were on the road as the sun was rising. Muted brushstrokes of pink and orange divided the horizon of the road from the low-lying white sky. Dense fog masked the trees lining the highway, offering only a quick glimpse of the landscape from the window, blurred at 70 mph. We had a three and a half hour drive ahead of us to Whitesburg. A southeastern Kentucky town on the Virginia border with a population hovering at 1500, a quarter of which live below the poverty line, Whitesburg is rich in cultural significance. We knew we were in Eastern Kentucky when we began picking up WMMT, Mountain Community Radio, in Hazard. Gritty old-timey melodies welcomed us to the mountains, reprogramming our senses to a simpler frame of mind. The station broadcasts from a 40 year old arts and educational center in Whitesburg known as the Appalshop.

Built in 1969 during the federal War on Poverty project, the Appalshop's original purpose was to teach filmography to residents in the hopes that they would document Appalachian life, exposing rural Southern culture to a national audience. Today, the organization is responsible for hundreds of films, educational initiatives, theatre productions, publications, and the genesis of WMMT. In addition to boasting the Appalshop, Whitesburg also hosts an annual Mountain Heritage Festival and is home to the highest peak in Kentucky, Black Mountain. This was to be the site that forever changed my sense of civic duty and Kentuckian pride.
Our itinerary for the day was a curious balance of formal and informal; meet and greet at the Post Office, hike on Pine Mountain taking Bad Branch Falls Trail, a visit to the community of Eolia, mountaintop removal tour on Black Mountain, debriefing and strategy session. I wasn't sure what to expect, and to be honest, I was afraid to face my own sense of duty. I knew that whatever I was embarking on, it meant gaining the type of knowledge that comes with responsibility, the kind that imposes a moratorium on passivity.
When we pulled in to the Post Office we were greeted by a young energetic Columbian woman named Patty wearing a green KFTC hooded sweatshirt and brightly colored knit hat with bobbing tassels. A Whitesburg resident and KFTC organizer, Patty was inviting and eager, but still efficient and professional from the start. There were six on the tour in total, and her energy set a great tone for the rest of us.
Patty suggested a bathroom break before heading to Bad Branch Falls. Rather than congest the Post Office restroom, we dropped in on the Webb family up the road. Patty was positive that this would be a welcome visit, but confirmed over the phone as we drove up to a dirt and gravel driveway lined with plastic pink flamingos and a pack of six or seven happy country dogs. There was a log cabin home to our right, the stone ruins of a small structure to our left, two rustic cabins on a hill back in the woods, and a cabana at the edge of a lake in the middle of the property equipped with a smattering of rafts and canoes, even a pontoon boat. Wild yard ornaments were as bountiful as trees; CDs hanging in tree branches as reflectors, a rusted metal sculpture of a waving tin man, a mobile of braziers hanging from the ceiling of the cabana next to Jesus giving the thumbs up. A hippie-folk-art-back-to-nature retreat that the two giant pink-flamingo shaped signs at the gate dubbed "Wiley's Last Resort."

The dogs followed us up to the house, politely wagging tails in exchange for pats on the head. We were greeted at the door by a small-framed woman with long white hair who immediately rushed us all in to her home, eager to introduce us to the bat that had been hanging on the door frame above her living room couch for a week. It was hanging by one foot, or one wing, unphased by the commotion of its human audience. "The dogs don't seem to stir him either, " she reported. "Jim's not home, so I'm just going to take care of it myself. I've been watching these vampire movies lately and at first I wanted to let him be, but now it's starting to give me the willies." With glove in hand she presented a small bucket filled with leaves intended to house the slumbering guest. "I think I'll put him in the closet, or maybe the basement. Too cold to put it outside." With that she climbed on the couch without trepidation and attempted to reach the dangling creature. We all watched in a combination of good humor and confusion, Patty warning her that she may need help, maybe someone taller. There were a couple more unsuccessful swipes at the bat and the next thing I knew Sean was wearing the gloves with Mrs. Webb offering the open bucket below him. In an anti-climactic swipe of the hand, Sean was able to gently transfer the animal. We were all so engaged that it was hard to think of this as our first visit to the Webb's home, it unfolded more like a lively exchange between neighbors.

Some lively bat-related chit chat and a series of bathroom breaks later, Jim Webb came home.
Poet, playwright, politician, radio personality, mountain man, kooky old hippie, "Wiley Quixote," Jim Webb is one of the most unique people I've ever encountered. His white beard is as long as his wife's white hair. Doning octagonal red lensed sunglasses and a purple Black Mountain activist t-shirt, Jim gave us the "nickel tour" of his property. The landscape has changed quite a bit just since he took ownership due to three mysteriously spontaneous fires. He named it "Wiley's Last Resort," because when it's gone, there'll be nowhere else for him to go. Perhaps not coincidentally, he often referred to it in jest as the end of the universe.
The two cabins on the hill were built by his great grandfather in the 1830's, one was the birthplace of both his grandfather and his father. In it stood two vintage KFTC rally boards, one which read, "Stop the Broadform Deed."

The Broadform Deed was a law that allowed mining companies to purchase land for purposes of excavating any natural resource, above or below ground despite who resided there. This law set in to motion more than a century of pillaging, corruption, displacement, and destruction. The Broadform Deed was the first vehicle of cultural as well as environmental rape in Appalachia; tearing families apart, burying homesteads, and solidifying a system of economic oppression. The law was more or less reversed by 1984, but by then coal companies owned all the land and surrounding business, as well as the law enforcement and local politicians.
Jim's nickel tour put us slightly behind schedule, but provided an invaluable perspective of local politics, history, and hospitality. I am convinced that the day would not have had the same impact without his stories. He shed light on property laws, how mining company rights and landowner rights have changed and evolved, and why the relationship is so contentious, all with a unique manner of friendship and hospitality. Jim embodies what it means to be a kind soul and good neighbor, a man free of suspicion or prejudice. We were invited back to the Last Resort for camping, swimming, or hiking any time, and we will most certainly oblige. The Webbs offer their land to camp for free, all by word of mouth and honors system. He encourages donations and also loves to barter camping space in exchange for clearing paths and building new sites. There's so much to say about him that I can't rightfully articulate. For more, his website is http://www.wileyslastresort.com
From Wiley's Last Resort we drove to Bad Branch Falls which is located on Pine Mountain. This is where the work of the day began. Patty explained that the reason for our 40 minute hike to the Falls was to gain an appreciation for the miraculous natural environment that is biding time to destruction.
Our hike was spectacular. Bad Branch Falls, even in the winter, is lush and verdant, with shrubbery and small topiary reminiscent of the wetlands sprawling at the base of tall prehistoric trees. Lime green moss grows thick on the north face of trees and boulders The air is crisp and has a fecund, piney scent.

Along the trail there was a crystal clear stream rolling over rocks and branches, with the sound of rushing water growing ever near. When the falls became visible over the top of the hill it was breathtaking. A snow embankment at the foot of the water still powdery in the unseasonably warm weather created a mystical illusion. There were pockets of ice in the rock and on the other side of the falls a crystalline pond of ice blue pooled in an earthen crevice. There was mist spraying up from the snow and rock, framed in red sandstone and forest green.

Sean and I have been hiking in many amazing places; we've explored the Smokies, the Blue Ridge Mountains, and several National forests and recreation areas... This hike stands firm in the ranks of the most beautiful. Before ever seeing the leveled top of Black Mountain it was clear to me that reclamation could never come close to approximating recreation. There is simply no way to replace hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, biodiversity, and layered growth. With this knowledge alone it is apparent that reclamation is a shameful lie, and that mountaintop removal is an irreversible desecration of all that is sacred and pure. No photograph, no brochure, no lecture or rally could teach that the way Bad Branch did.
One defense of strip mining is that the process of reclamation will restore the mountain to its original condition. Reclamation is an effort to ecologically stabilize and restore a site after mining efforts cease. The mining industry is required to dump topsoil and trees in to valley fills for reuse in reclamation, though it is much more common for the company to be granted waivers absolving them of restorative responsibility. In the few cases that reclamation does occur, a thin layer of topsoil over hard rock will not sustain any kind of foliage, muchless wildlife, and in most cases topsoil is never redistributed to begin with. Millions of years of biodiversity is lost.
Biodiversity is not all that is lost to the greed of the coal industry. A drive through Letcher County will reveal three prominent enterprises; vacant lots, fast food, and gas stations. Economic diversity is an obvious casualty. Coal companies bear all the purchasing power, and to keep wealth from reaching the citizens companies buy all of the available property. Much of this property sits vacant, while existing structures are usually outfitted with fuel pumps and neon Kwik-stop signs. Very few residents have the income to compete with coal tycoons, which means local business is virtually non-existent. Employment options outside of mining are extremely limited. Compounding this problem is the popularity of mountaintop removal. It is the fastest and cheapest method of mining, which means jobs are short term, worker lay-offs are exponential, and property owners are left homeless. Many who are laid off end up with company-owned 7/11 jobs or turn to unemployment. In an effort to give back the community, once or twice a year the company will engage in outreach by distributing turkeys to poor families at Thanksgiving, or school supplies to children in the Fall. This cheap consolation (or is it flagrant placation?) echoes half-hearted attempts at reclamation, some kind of sad charicature of goodwill. However, residents rarely see it that way, as miners rarely work in their own region. That detachment, combined with heavy lay-offs, prevents folks from recognizing coal's impact on the local environment and eliminates the possibility of unionization. Patty elucidated this vicious economic cycle on the drive from Bad Branch, which must have revealed upwards of ten gas stations in a five mile radius.
Our next stop was Eolia, to the home of Sam and Evelyn Gilbert.

Sam was to be our guide up Black Mountain. A long time resident of Letcher County and former strip miner, he was familiar with both the procedure and the consequence of strip mining and mountaintop removal. On the way to his house Patty pointed out a bend just past a small community playground where she once encountered a family of bear while driving on the road. Bear sightings within residential areas have increased dramatically as they're forced out of the woods by blasting zones. When we got to the Gilbert home, that phenomenon was confirmed by Evelyn, who has watched bear pass by as she sits on the back porch. Set back in a "holler," the Gilberts own a stunning yet simple cabin-style home with a sprawling enclosed sitting porch. Lined in windows, it is bright and cozy, complete with dining table and couches. Up their drive are several dog runs where Sam houses his 16 or 17 hunting dogs. The Gilberts once raised 75 dogs and over 3000 quail. The quail were Sam's project, his attempt to restore nature with what he'd taken from it over years of small game hunting. They ate a lot of quail that year, the dinner table survivors released to the wild. Sam and Evelyn humorously agree that it was their first and last foray in raising foul.
The Gilberts' welcome was every bit as filial as the Webb's. Evelyn greeted us with wet hair and bare feet, just out of the shower, again as if we were neighbors from up the road just dropping by. Their home was warm. Fresh laundry competed with apples and cinnamon for olfactory domination. Evelyn got us settled in and soon after Sam came to join. Evelyn has curly red-auburn hair and a genuine, maternal smile. Sam is tall and broad, an imposing stature, a solid and stoic exterior. However, once he sat and began to speak, his image softened. He told his stories plainly, without embellishment or bias, but with sensitivity for the land and residents. His career in underground and strip mining makes him an authoritative source, and a compelling voice against mountaintop removal. He got out of the industry as mountaintop removal was being introduced, citing the destructive nature of the practice (burying headwaters, demolishing communities, eliminating wildlife, further oppressing and enslaving mountain people, etc.). An anecdote about the time he dug a new well illustrated the toxicity of coal sludge seeping in to the earth. Typically wells are 100-150 feet deep, but Sam dug 230 feet to ensure a fresh and abundant water source. What he pulled from the hole was a urine colored liquid with an intolerable pungency. He had the "water" in a bucket one evening as he was working near a flame, and it actually caught fire and burned. This is the same water families have depended on for centuries for drinking and bathing. Now he and Evelyn must drink bottled water and depend on an older, less abundant well for washing. When that runs out, as it has in many communities, they will be bathing in water contaminated with mercury, arsenic, iron, and a number of other heavy metals and toxins. In fact, Patty knows a family with small children who must bathe from a contaminated water supply, all of them riddled with health problems.
Sam's bone to pick with mountaintop removal doesn't end at flammable water. In 2005 Sam noticed a strange truck parked on the edge of his property, which is at the base of Black Mountain just below a natural pond. After calling out several times without a response, Sam relied on a few blasts of his pistol to stir the elusive caller. He was immediately greeted by a man, all smiles, emerging from the hills to tell him that he was sent by the Army Corp. of Engineers to assess the stability of the area and the pond. The man was promptly run off the property and told not to return unannounced. After further investigation, and with the help of KFTC (where he met and befriended Patty) Sam found out that the coal company planned a mining zone on the mountain just behind his property. They were surveying the site of the old pond for use as a coal sludge pond. These ponds are located at the base of a valley fill to collect run-off and sediment from the leveled earth above. As water trickles down the mountain and filters through the mass of blasted material it picks up toxins and metals from dynamite and heavy machinery emissions, pooling in to a mass of poisonous sludge. Though the sludge pond is walled to keep it from washing in to the community, it is well-documented that these protective walls erode, erasing entire towns from the grid. Even when pond walls maintain structural integrity, sinkholes and shifted foundations are common consequences of such engineering.
The sludge pond proposal on Sam's land encroached on his property line by 100 feet, butting the pond right up against his home. Knowing that such a plan spelled the eminent deletion of his homestead, Sam partnered with KFTC to fight the coal company. The hearings went all the way to Federal Court that election year. Sam's tenacity and the people power behind KFTC led to a victory over the coal company. They're not allowed to revisit his part of the mountain for mining for many years to come.
For a more in depth description of Sam's fight and his critique of coal: http://www.kftc.org/our-work/canary-project/stories/sam-gilbert
It was humbling to be in the presence of such a dynamic figure, and I felt extremely fortunate to be viewing Black Mountain under his watch. Unaware of the condition of the mountain following all the snow, Sam grabbed his chainsaw and directed us outside to the truck. He chided Patty about taking her little sedan up the mountain and insisted she drive his Blazer. At that point I should have known we were in for a rugged ride, but I was still envisioning the nice mountain roads of Blue Ridge Parkway. We followed behind Sam's pickup to the base of the mountain. When I saw the road before us I was aghast.

It looked impassable. Jagged wheel ruts were carved in compacted dust and rock along a road just wide enough for one pickup. To the left was the wall of the mountain, to the right a long, life threatening look down. We were tossed all over bumping and maneuvering past low lying limbs and potholes at 5 mph. There were times that the turns were so sharp it looked as if one wheel would have to liberate itself from the edge. We all clung to the doors and busied our racing minds with nervous laughter. The craggy passage we were negotiating was a county road. Citizens' tax dollars are supposed to be allocated for road maitnance, but it was clear that the government did not want this road to be accessible. The treachery of roads near active mine sites is another mechanism of shielding the public from the extinction of their landscape. Patty, aware of our disbelief, said, "You are bearing witness to a crime. You can't just let it go."
That resonated with me rest of the evening driving through that mountain. Criminal on so many levels. Environmental wreckage, an economic hostage situation (Sam's words), withholding tax money, ignoring infrastructure, stealing land, monopolizing a job market, contaminating water supplies... It all swirled in my head as I already began trying to find the words to describe it to people back at home. But how? How to do justice to the magnitude of desolation, of corruption?
I was only half present in conversation for the rest of the way to the top, lost in my own heavy heart.
The scenery to the top was depressing. Dry straw-like grass spottily covered the landscape, splayed like puzzles pieces amid patches of dust. This looked like the desert, with pathetic spindly trees sporatically placed, clinging to life, roots a little more exposed with each gust of wind. The only thing not poised for disintegration was rock.

When Sam pulled over, indicating a good place to look out in to the valley fill, I secretly prayed that the ground beneath our wheels didn't crumble at the edge of the road. We emerged from the Blazer looking out over a rock-lined stream, the term for which escapes me. A long trough of rock constructed down the side of the mountain as a drainage mechanism, another band-aid gesture that doesn't stop contaminated run-off from seeping over the sides of the plateaued summit. At the bottom, in the center of the valley, was an active underground mine.

The mountaintops in the distance were all a shadowy evergreen, still covered in trees, a stark contrast to the balding sandy mound we stood atop. On it we could clearly see the strata of the mountain; a layer of rock, a seam of coal, all the way around. Before hopping back in the Blazer to continue our ascent, Patty told us that what we were surrounded by was reclamated land. The mining company had officially washed their hands of that side of the mountain. It was a prospect that just seemed unreal. This was their idea of stability, of restoration? I tried transplanting the image of the Falls on the hopeless visage before me. It was unfathomable.
Our next stop was the peak of Black Mountain, the highest point in the Bluegrass state. However, what Sam's truck stopped along was neither a peak nor a point, it was a dead stretch of flatland. We jumped out quickly because the sun was setting and we needed to get to the bottom before dark to make it safely. The wind whipped so strongly that none of us got too close to the edge. Being blown off was a plausible punishment for such brazen attendance. As I snapped photos the cold and the wind abused my knuckles, tore at my earrings, blew my hair over my eyes as if to say "Don't look." There was an eerie sense of isolation and abandonment gazing across the horizon on all sides at the sun setting over a leaf-capped ridge line.
We were all cold- physically and emotionally. It was time to make our descent.
Coming down the landscape began to change again. The road was less rugged, and the walls were lined in augering holes, not benches. Then heavy machinery became more prevalent, signifying an active mine to our immediate left.

We'd heard stories from Patty and Sam about being chased off the mountain by mining officials, they don't take kindly to people nosing around their crime scene. Patty proudly relayed stories of a few instances when Sam had to get stern with the miners, not backing down on one's right to pass through a county road. But we were no longer passing through, we were infiltrating. This was a company-owned, private road. It was possible to hear the blasting siren at any minute, we could be stopped and questioned, we were trespassing. At that news, the Blazer fell silent, as if hushing ourselves would make us invisible. Patty giggled and assured us that Sam knows how to B.S. right past these people, and that if we were to be stopped he would handle it. We were getting head nods and suspicious eyes from workers along the road. As we passed one truck we over heard a loud CB radio announce "It looks like there's a girl and a guy in the car." They were watching. I held my breath and tucked my camera under my jacket, unwilling to have it confiscated should an incident arise. My imagination ran wild with possible outcomes of this illicit journey down the other side, my trust for Patty and Sam being the one saving grace.
At the gate out of the site there were administrative trailers set up in a circle displaying banners espousing some moral mantra to the effect of, "Remember your responsibilities to family, co-worker, then self." Abandon your identity, it urged. When you're on that mountain it is in the name of family and company, civic and moral duty do not exist.
The signs made a lasting impression, though our minds were far from sublimated as we exited the gate, deceptively offering timid head nods and stiff waves to the guard as we passed. I exhaled. We made it down the mountain unfollowed, harassed instead by a lingering sense violation.

It has taken me over a week to put the Mountain Witness Tour experience in to words and still I don't feel like I've done it justice. An excerpt from my Facebook status that day reads:
"It is important for everybody to take this tour. I had no idea how it would impact me, but here are a few ways:
1. Right off the bat we were welcomed in to people's homes and treated as best friends and family... Sincere hospitality is a valuable reminder of how we should all reach out to one another.
2. Patty (KFTC leader) and our guides had a passion and willfulness that is inspiring to say the least. It's very empowering to hear stories of how just a few people can and have made big changes.
3. Experiencing the beauty of the mountains in an area that is untouched- We hiked Bad Branch Falls and were met with verdant foliage and a breathtaking waterfall.
4. As Patty said, "Witnessing a crime." Driving on a deadly treacherous mountain road that citizens' tax money is supposed to maintain. Traveling through "reclamated" land that barely grows a single spindly tree, and getting to the top of a mountain that looks like a fallow desert.
5. Feeling a tangible connection to a cause, a culture (our culture), and a community."

And that is the best I can do from my couch in the Highlands of Louisville, KY. Beyond my story there are several events just around the corner to stir folks' interest in mountaintop removal.
The first is Appalachian Love on Saturday, February 6, at the Green Building. This is a kick-off event for I Love Mountains Day. For more information visit http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=253271623638&index=1
The second is I Love Mountains Day on February 11 in Frankfort, KY. This is an awareness rally and lobbying day. For more information visit http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=237584639612&ref=ts

"Protest that endures, I think, is moved by a hope far more modest than that of public success: namely, the hope of preserving qualities in one's own heart and spirit that would be destroyed by acquiescence." - Wendell Berry

A great reference for understanding mining language: http://www.coaleducation.org/glossary.htm
Kentuckians for the Commonwealth: http://www.kftc.org
To schedule a tour: http://www.kftc.org/our-work/canary-project/people-in-action/witness-tours

Three is my favorite number.

2010-01-16T13:57:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl the first number I learned was 3, a symbol of maternal expedience, the number that provided a direct line to Grandmommy's house (pronounced Grandmummy) a la speed dial. When my mother wasn't doting over me she was dialing 3, instigating hours-long conversations, sometimes as many as five a day. They usually concerned riveting minute-by-minute updates, "Laura and I went for a walk when she got home from school," "Tom just bought a new train set and now he's going bowling," "Laura insists on getting an iguana." I sat in my wicker swing listening, night after night with my nose in a book and my ears keenly elsewhere. The conversations were mundane, unremarkable, yet somehow I was drawn in. The business and banter of the two women whom I admired most in the world, my mind racing at the importance of everyday trivialities. On occasion I was directed to run upstairs and dial 3 in mom's bedroom, then lay on the bed and yell down when Grandmommy answered. Like Alice to a tea party, I never denied my invitation to join. On these affairs I rarely spoke after greeting Grandmommy. Instead I would lay back on the bed and close my eyes, resting the brown rotary phone on the comforter beside me, or sometimes on my chest. I listened intently to the space between their words. Volumes of unvaried gossip passed through my ears, my attention fixated on giggles, sighs, inflections of sympathy or comprehension, pauses that allowed both women to reflect. That space, a limbo between kinship and friendship, to learn about each other as women, as confidants, as pals.

Those phone calls, little episodes of my mother being mothered. Still calling on her mother's wisdom and repose despite being a woman of 40 with a husband and daughter herself. And I, privy to her grapplings with adulthood, with motherhood. Many times over I imagined my adult self in the middle of some domestic chore, Mother cradled between my shoulder and ear. I would lose myself fantasizing the things I might learn about Mother when I grew up, what mysteries of my own childhood might be elucidated. In my eight year old reverie there was no question of how these conversations would transpire, we always dialed 3.

As a little girl I had no way of predicting how many times in life I would feel compelled to retreat to the phone. I also had no way of predicting that to be an impossibility.

Yesterday would have been my mother's 63rd birthday. There would not have been cake, or most likely even a dinner. Mom was thoroughly uncomfortable with being the center of a fuss. The date would have passed just as quietly as it did without her here, but I am certain there would have been many conversations to fill the occasion. What took place instead were secret meetings inside my heart, moments of internal dialogue in which I channeled just the sound of her voice, and sat with it. Oddly enough, the same beautiful instances of laughter, consultation, and reflection occur there as they do over wires.

We celebrated.

2010-01-05T17:10:00.000-08:00

"There must be many other things to think about that are more important than the passage of time, since so many other things stir our enthusiasm and drive us to act. That proves that Time doesn’t rule through the power of the Inevitable, and that the Inevitable isn’t Life." Anais Nin, 1919, sixteen years old.

An especially poignant quote for the start of this year. Though a few days behind, I can't allow the opportunity to pass for me to begin penning resolutions. It has been particularly difficult in the last month to pinpoint specific things I wish to accomplish, and the vague ideas I have rattling around lack suitable clarity.

These things usually come quickly to me, almost too easily, to the extent that each year I'm left evaluating all that I am not. Anxiety mingles with my enthusiasm for the time to begin anew, and I usually spend the first couple of weeks in January manically behaving as if I'm doing my best impression of myself. A song and dance of concerted effort that eventually fades to an absent minded shuffle. The newness wears thin, routine replaces resolution, and life proceeds as normal.

Should I accept this year's difficulty to define what it is that needs changing and accomplishing as a good omen? Hardly so. Resolutions have grown the skin of witticism, but lack the bones of a punchline... The kind of joke that preys on the entire audience, all deer-eyed with nervous laughter, ultimately left confused and let down. We promise to go to the gym in the 25th hour of the day, we promise not to lose patience in a world of self-importance, we vow to be mindful of frivolous spending as we type on new iPhones. Two weeks in to the new year the punch-line hits us, joke's on you, kid.

I was afraid to tackle my list this year, though it must be done. These things are important to me, the thought of a blueprint to refer to when I get a little off track. The stubborn traditionalist in me demands the list be made. What is a year without things to look forward to and things to reflect on? Things made concrete in lists. But how to begin with these lazy, unfinished globs of stray thoughts that persist to demand a spot in the 2010 agenda?

It was the bravery and precociousness of Nin's childhood New Year's Eve entry that gave me the courage to begin. "...the Inevitable isn't Life." As a severe creature of habit, I tend to nurture the things that already possess meaning and go deaf to that which requires adjustment. I love the comfort of knowing, the ease of routine, and the level of peacefulness and joy that accompanies a quiet, easy life. Just enough room for the spontaneity of friendships and adventures, but still dependable enough to move through with eyes wide shut if need be. An exercise in the Inevitable. (I love how she chose to capitalize that, an identity.) My resolutions are not being channeled clearly because they challenge me to recognize that sometimes you must push beyond comfort to enrich life.

The following is an embarrassingly cursory glimpse at the nagging voices of self-critique that scrimmage for my attention... Nebulous as it may be...

1. Nin is right; my happiness is rarely a product of temporal circumstance. Why am I so preoccupied with time? I've moved through life always looking ahead, always one foot in the next phase. I readily appreciate the value of a moment, but lack the ability to live in it. It is especially important now that I wrap up my long undergraduate career and face (perhaps for the first time) a series of glaring question marks, that I don't obsess over what lies in the future. I want to enjoy this interim, I want to be level-headed and open-minded enough to recognize opportunities as they arise. It would be a crime against time to try planning for it now. I will resist my impulse to jump ahead five years and I will listen to the moment.

2. A consequence of honoring simplicity is that often it means oversimplifying by mistake. The area in which I am most guilty of this is in my friendships. Admittedly, I have not been a good, present friend to many of the people I love. My habit of tending to what is in front of me and allowing the rest to fall in to place simply does not work in the realm of friendship. There are people I owe apologies to for my absence and thoughtlessness, there are people with which I would like to make amends, and still more who I simply need to make time for. These people are important to me, friends old and new alike, and as of late the universe has presented me with example after heartbreaking example of how quickly these bonds can deteriorate. I will attempt atonement, forgive past digressions, and tighten what's come loose.

3. I'll stop making empty promises to adopt behaviors that should be habitual and simply live as an adult. This is a multi-layered, all-encompassing, giant scary umbrella of responsibility that has been shirked for too long. A new decade, a new chapter of adulthood, discarding what is petty in favor of what garners worth and integrity. I will be mindful of responsibility; punctuality, willfulness, proactivity, and reciprocity.

4. As I gain perspective with the years, I realize that skepticism has its place, but that optimism and a forgiving heart should always rank supreme. I grew up in a family live with sarcastic banter, sharp tongues, begrudged shoulders, and cynicism. At times this can be a comical, even therapeutic way of looking at the world; always critical, rarely naive. But in recent years I have seen how this mentality permeates the soul in to old age and replaces good memories with the bitter undertones, fosters ill-will, and renders a person unrelatable and self-contained. I have no intention of suppressing my innate disposition for a critical eye and a little quick wit, but I do need to lighten up. This one will be difficult given that I pride myself on keen intuition and my ability to accurately judge character, but... I will refrain from making fast judgements about those I don't know. (This will have to come in baby steps, working retail feeds my cynicism). This is an essential step in letting go of other counter-productive, negative mental baggage.

No more clear in words than it was in my mind, but delineated nevertheless. In review, these aren't as muddled and intangible as they were running freely in the ol' limbic system. My crazy mammalian brain is ready for a little reinvention.

Vague Notions

2010-01-04T18:37:00.000-08:00

I have a girlishly romantic penchant for photographic vignettes of sunshine. When rays are caught blindingly glistening on film, the landscape reveals new potential. Intangible light bisecting, illuminating, cloaking, disguising what is concrete... Something divine is suggested in the way sunlight reveals itself in a particular moment, and I revel in the opportunity to catch it. When the sun announces herself by reaching for the Earth, I immediately experience a sense of renewal; involuntary and perplexing, comforting and cleansing, recognizing that which is bigger than myself.

I realize that by sharing this I run the risk of sounding melodramatic, pretentious, even desperate; a risk I am willing to accept for the sake of giving language to the things I love. What is the use of enjoying these moments and mentally laboring over ways of articulating them if I never take the time to remember? Writing, for me, is the very pulse of reminiscence. I've made a very regrettable mistake in the last few years, I abandoned my own sentimentality.

In second grade I discovered the importance of writing. I was poised to begin my Young Authors book, replete with cliche storybook premise and four word sentence structure. As we, a class of twenty eight respectably intelligent middle class children, set forth to half heartedly toil over our grade school masterpieces, our teacher left us with a simple word of advice, "Always write for detail." It wasn't the words themselves, though to this day I find myself repeating them when I sit down to write, it was the intimation that words are meant to capture, not simply to report. It was in that instant that writing made sense to me, and I fell in love. That same year I received my first diary as a birthday present. It was hard bound and the edges of the pages were lined in faux gold leafing, closed securely by a lock that fastened the front and back covers. It was rose scented, and I christened the first page with descriptions of all the things that scent brought to mind- Grandmommy, funeral homes, and the rose bush next door. I'm fairly certain that from that point I didn't cease to write. I couldn't enjoy something or make sense of things until I'd found a way to make it evident in words, like capturing the rays on film.

Writing cultivated a sentient being in me, one acutely aware, eager for explanation. I grew up keeping everything with the reason that one day I would want to remember, and what I could not keep I wrote about. Sentimentality and nostalgia have been at the forefront of every decision I have ever made, intuition the guide of every judgement. I am convinced that my history with writing has made that so.

And so, it is in writing that I enter this new year, one that promises to be a mile marker in every fathomable regard. My relationship with language has been neglected for long enough. It is no longer practical to settle for journaling that is recorded mentally one minute, and lost in the cerebral shuffle the next. Always write for detail. I've no purpose for opening this blog outside of that; a nagging urge to share everything all of the time, and to remember. That which is so rejuvenating about photographing the sun is so similar in effect to the empowerment I enjoy from capturing something in words.

A hazard of taking a sabbatical from recording things... now everything flows, everything wants out and it manifests with little rhyme or reason. Did any of that rambling make sense? It is my hope that with a little practice and a determined mind I'll find my writer's voice when the one that is God-given fails. I owe an apology to myself for ever granting reconciliation to the petty excuses I gave for putting off the opportunity to sit with my thoughts.

Apology accepted. Here comes the sun...