Authenticity

A sidenote to those of you that don't really know me - I love reading for more reasons than I can possibly name and one of them is that reading so often is the spark to inspiration. It can give you an idea or thought or word or phrase that will carry you through the day, brighten it, change your attitude, give you a new perspective and make a color that you always thought was just blue, is now cerulean. I read a simple post this morning, no more than three paragraphs long with a description of the writer's grandmother. She said that "she thinks what she says and says what she thinks." At first, I thought she was simply trying to be poetic and fill space and stretch out the well-known phrase "saying what you think." However, it stuck with me and struck a cord. What does it mean to think what you say? We all say a lot of things: "I'd like to run a marathon someday," "I am an informed voter," "I love your hair!" but how often do we really mean the things we say? I know I have certainly fallen victim to the ease of saying something to please a person or please a crowd or please myself and there have been countless times that I have not thought what I have said. I was playing a part. And yes, I know we all play parts, but what would our lives be like if we truly thought what we said? Would we be truer to ourselves? Would the fair weather friends sink back and the true and steadfast ones rise up? Would we be happier? I met a new friend recently and as most new introductions go, we told our stories. Inevitably and I'm not sure how, I always get to the subject of marriage and children. It is probably due to the fact that I am getting older and there are expectations for people my age (oh Bridget Jones, how apt you were). I told this new friend exactly how I felt. I do not want children. I do not believe I will ever get married. I don't judge those that do, I applaud them and purchase them gifts as society demands. And, I am not too silly of a person to not know that I am still relatively young and acknowledge that my opinions on such matters very well may change. As I was standing on my soap box, I realized just how far I had come. Many moons ago, on similar such introductions or first dates or "get-to-know-you-gatherings" or holidays spent with family, I would skirt around my feelings, hoping to not hurt feelings or risk losing a potential date or friend. This new friend, in my mid-twenties, showed me just how little I am willing to sacrifice my own authenticity for their approval. I am me - take it or leave it. I am secure enough on my own to follow my own feet and say what I think (mostly)...

Chasing Minutes

I have this terrible tendency to hit the snooze button three, four, sometimes eight times totaling more than an hour slept past my intended waking time. This morning however, I woke to its 7:25 ring, and a short text right after that telling me my sister was sick and unable to make training this morning. I thought for a second how lovely it would be to get an extra hour of sleep so texted the trainer to see if he wanted me solo or just push it til next week. He wanted a workout himself so we decided to skip. I have a very long day ahead of me today - two jobs, a meeting with a friend to feed her dogs before she goes away on her honeymoon, bank and bill paying. So it was incredibly tempting to rest a little while longer. But I didn't. I got up and went for a quick run - only two miles because the changing of the seasons has me short of breath. And then I used the empty room that used to be ours for some yoga. Coffee and homemade breakfast followed and here I sit. Writing this blog. Most days, even the most event-less, I find myself chasing the minutes, unable to fit all the things I want (or need) to do before I have to run off somewhere else. But more often than not - minutes can be found lurking just on the other sides of the comforter, or inside the coffee mug made at home instead of at the drive through Starbucks. I am already planning all manner of things for tomorrow but will take this peaceful morning as a reminder that I can find a moment to be still, write, and prepare for the day. This calm will help me carry on.

Mist

It has been five in the evening for the last thirty six hours or so. The light has stayed the same, a dusty gray that is soaked through with a mist that doesn't penetrate but gives the feeling of dampness to everything - even inside. The air is chilled, the leaves are turning. My dishes have been done almost as soon as they have been used. I baked bread. I went to sleep without crying last night, drowsy before the clock struck nine but unable to focus on the criticism I am supposed to cross reference with my thesis. I am set firmly in between loving this change and chill and shaded light and the desire to leave it behind for the place in the South where I hope my voice will be cheerier or at the very least - less strained and tired. I am less than three months away from this change, one that I am trying to prepare for, but not. What changes are you all making (or avoiding) today?

Epilogue

I no longer dream about young ironworkers. It is no longer in my father’s house, however large and impressive, where I dream of living. I am not wearing flannel pajama bottoms or eating cereal. I am full grown and fully clothed. I am in a log cabin in the woods with fiery leaves and slats of the autumn sun streaking through the windows. Or I am in a modern flat overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Or I am in a cramped and miniscule studio with one good view in the middle of a bustling city. But the common thread, the recurring image, is a computer screen, or a laptop, or a vintage typewriter, or an empty journal, and ink pen or pencil or quill. I do not know where I am going to eventually plant my wandering feet. I no longer feel the need to cast my dream with a strong, tall, attractive man. I entertain supporting roles and extras, but the life that I picture for myself is no longer dominated by the presence (and more often than not, absence) of a male lead. I do not need him. I want my own home. I am seeking a life that allows me to continue to dream, and put those dreams down on paper. I am looking for a community and culture that inspires the kinds of stories I lived growing up, moving from place to place, and being made aware of the diversity and energy in each person I meet and city I visit. The strings of my soul, the products of my writing, are ready to wrap around a city, a people, and a set of memories. I am ready to become part of the world that I live in, and my writing reflect the beauty of the spaces and people I see every day. I want my words to be distinctive and true like the striking reality of what I see and experience. My writing will be like our childhood game of stringing a tree into a house, marrying the twine into the essence of the tree’s roots so that it is as much a part of its character as the earth that grounds it.

Familiar

I live alone now, again. I rise when I want, no one has to know how late I sleep. I can turn on music when my first alarm goes off and then drift in the music through several snoozes. It doesn't bother anyone. I can go out and get a cup of coffee and only get the one for myself. I can go anywhere in the apartment and I can make the bed because it was only me that was sleeping there. It is so much easier to be kept clean. I remember all of this. This freedom, this order, this way of moving through the day without speaking or being with anyone other than my own thoughts. I am more productive. I am lonely.

What Now?

The apartment is all mine now. It is such a sad thing, I know it will be an ok thing, then a good thing, then an annoying thing because it is so expensive for just little ol' me. But I made this decision and even though I cannot remember why - I made it. The grief and pain is blinding but I am that stupid kind of mature person that knows this was for the best, for now. Automatically and because that is just how my brain works, I have begun thinking of things I want to do now that I don't have a television or another person in this place constantly providing me with distractions, both good and bad. I have already done a great many things that will allow me the room to breath and think. I have rearranged and I have cleaned. I have thrown so many things away and placed other things in places that will serve my purposes only. I really don't have very many THINGS. Once the couch is out of my possession I will most likely be able to box it all up and put it in the back of my car. And what freedom, what great detachment exists in the knowledge that I can drive myself away and have only the things that I truly need. I want to run more and eat better. Of course I do - I wouldn't be me if I didn't see this as yet another opportunity to perfect my body. I also look at this as an opportunity to write and read more. No more TV (not that it has stopped me from having Netflix or DVDs playing constantly on my laptops). I have plans to buy a bouquet of flowers tomorrow. As well as devote an hour - just one - to polishing my thesis. I'm going to start slow so that I don't overwhelm myself with the pressure to DO IT ALL and fast. I want to read again. I always felt so guilty reading when he was here and no, not guilt, I just didn't want to do something that we couldn't share. I loved watching TV with him because we were interactive, we would talk about it, hold hands and learn together. But now, I have neither the TV or him so I have my books and my writing to fully devote to because there is nothing else. And it should be that way. I should, during this time, these next three months plus a year should be all about the reading and writing.

Paper and Ink

I spent the day as most days off should be spent. Late to rise, a quick run, coffee and a bagel with family then a good movie. Home to put away laundry, watch another movie and then a task of collecting and cleaning out books to sell. I found and began reading a book I've been putting off and saving - but I just can't get into it. I find my mind sometimes feels like it moves through genres and places in time life television channels...and it is currently not to set to a suburban-locked and quirky family post-9/11. The hard part is figuring out what channel it actually IS set to. Victorian England? 17th century Israel? Chick-lit circa Bridget Jones? I have a box full of books I have acquired over the better part of the last decade that I know I have no interest in reading again or keeping. However, that box is probably only comprised of about 10% of my current collection. I just can't bear to give the rest up. Some I am keeping because I know I'll reread them many times. Others I am keeping for reference that I may need someday. Some I haven't read yet but I want to. But most just remind me of something - a time spent abroad, a semester spent scribbling notes in the margins, an age that was marked by my obsession with it's hero, lines I'd hope to remember and use voiced by so many incredible female characters. These books are part of my soul. I think that's why I am so against the new technology of Kindles and Nooks. You cannot feel the weight of the ink YOU added while penning in notes about what you think the author meant when they said what they said. You cannot flip through the pages, see a coffee stain and remember the cafe you were sitting in when you spilled your latte. The books I refuse to give up are more than just paper and ink. They are the tangible memories of why I want to write. They exist and will go on with me because keeping them close helps me remember who I was, the innocence I had, the lessons I learned and the places I have been.