The Dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh? He goes on...

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

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

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

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

Are You Lightning?

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

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

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

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

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

Relating

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

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

We are responsible for one another.

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

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

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

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

We are responsible for one another.

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

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

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

Shining Brightly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stillness and Wisdom

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

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

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.