Deeper Roots

“Storms make trees take deeper roots” –Dolly Parton

It’s been a long time.  Which sounds like the cliché beginning to every love song.  And I’m sorry about that.  I just didn’t know how else to begin after so many months of silence.  But I suppose if I’m going to return to writing regularly, I should start with a piece inspired by a Dolly Parton quote. 

I don’t always know how to restart after a long hiatus from writing. I just know I need to cleanse.  To empty my heart and soul in a different way than running my brain all night long, instead of sleeping.  Because, turns out, I need to sleep, too.

I’ve just returned from an impromptu trip to the mountains.  A 1400-mile excursion that provides me with 20 hours alone in the car, with nothing but me, the dog, and my rambling mind to keep me occupied.   And a random assortment of cds I keep stashed in the glove compartment for when I can’t handle my own noise anymore (Jay-Z and Gillian Welch…pick your poison).

As much as I’ve come to love Baltimore over the last twelve years, there still is something magical about hitting the road, and heading south towards the mountains.  Maybe they just make me feel safe, or comfortable.  The drive through the Shenandoah Valley is just the teaser, as I wind my way down through Virginia, and creep in the side door of Tennessee.  When I hit that North Carolina line in Madison County, I frequently force myself to stop at the “scenic pullover” stops, designed for tourists, but used most frequently by this used-to-be-local-girl.  To take a deep breath.  And look at the panorama of mountains that surround me on all sides.  It’s truly breathtaking.  Most likely the first true “pause” I’ve taken in weeks.  And I feel it in my heart.  This deep pang that could almost be mistaken as arrhythmia or heartburn or some other ailment; but I know better.  

The mountains are home.  In a small valley wedged between the lavender purple and deep blue hills, where I spent the first 18 years of my life.  Those hills are filled with people who make my heart complete; my sisters, my family, my friends.  And though a trip home is rarely quiet, or uneventful, they’re always full.  Full of life.  And love.  And little kid hugs.  And usually cupcakes.  And probably BBQ.

The last few years have felt particularly complicated.   Between the health of my family and my close friends, and truthfully my own health, and the seemingly never ending string of national and international tragedies that seem to rock my very core, I’ve been having those cyclical conversations with God.  The ones where you challenge what else could possibly be added to your plate (which is always the cue for just a few more things, which is basically just a cruel trick to remind us that we really are stupidly strong and capable of handling pretty much most things that come our way; one of those life lessons that I’d frankly rather put on a poster and hang in my office instead of “living through it”, but whatever, I’ll bring that up with God later). 

And in the last few months, I suppose I’ve found myself somewhere between overwhelmed and incredibly grateful and blessed.  Another trip to West Africa.  Some new challenges and new opportunities.  Another semester down and grad school is all but under my belt, and I seem to have survived it all with minimal scarring.  Which is proof for me that God still listens to my prayers, even if I haven’t been his best advocate over the years. 

And as we just wrapped up another commencement, and I’ve said my tearful goodbyes to another incredibly amazing class of young people ready to take on the world, I’m finding myself feeling reflective.  And emotional.  And perhaps a tad bit vulnerable.

I turned 30 this year.  Which is one of those things you think about almost every day of your twenties.  Like the ticking clock in Peter Pan.  And then all the sudden it happens, and really nothing earth-shattering occurs.  Except I do feel a bit more comfortable in my skin.  And maybe I feel a bit more ready for what the world will throw at me.  The anxiousness and nervousness of my twenties, and the looming sense of not being “good enough”, has all but subsided.   And I’m hitting this interesting little stride in my life that I don’t want to preemptively label as confidence in myself, or trust, but maybe they’re the little saplings of those words.  Just starting to take root and grow.

I’m learning life is hard and unfair.  The Rolling Stones didn’t lie to me.  It doesn’t always let up, just because it should.  And I can’t always get what I want. 

And I get tired.  Which perhaps is easier to admit now that I’m thirty.  Partially because I love the work I do so deeply, that I actually find myself with heartache.  And frustration.  And aspiration.  Like actually being in love.  And partially because its hard work.  Maybe not hard like lifting heavy things all day, or hard like being a school teacher.  But there are endless conversations about how to be better people, and how to really create change.  How to look at the world with new eyes, and see new possibilities.  Work that requires the brain to be in connection with the heart.   And lots of flip-chart paper.

But also I’m tired because I have had too many burners burning.  Too many big things going at once.  Which gets exhausting.  Juggling and peddling at the same time. 

I haven’t really allowed myself the space to process all the tragedy that has happened this year.  The world we live in that seems to get nuttier by the minute.

Generally when terrible things happen, my guttural reaction is to get in my car and drive to North Carolina and squeeze the faces of my nieces and nephews until they know, in their deepest cores, that they are loved so hard by so many people (okay, especially me, I’m a little bit obnoxious about being their “favorite”).  Or to build an impenetrable bubble for all four of them to live inside and give it to them for Christmas next year so that I never have to think about something happening to their innocence.  Their sweet smiles.  Their goofy moments of ultimate silliness.   But driving home isn’t always an option.  So I settle for a phone call, or a quick text message.  A connection.

Because I’m deeply troubled by what this world holds for them.   And not just them, but all of my students.  All of my “kids” (most of whom are indeed over 18, and are, for all intensive purposes, considered “adults”, unless I’m talking, in which case they’re absolutely my “kids”).

Especially just after graduation, just as we begin to release, I want to be able to explain it to them.

I want them to understand why it is so complicated.  Why things aren’t always just black and white.  Or good and bad.  That as much as I’d like to dream of a simpler world for them, sometimes the complicatedness of our humanity is our greatest weight and asset.  And that there is beauty embedded in what is difficult to understand.

Through some of the darkest times, we humans seem to find our greatest strengths. The journey through the dark and complicated can deepen our roots, and challenge our assumptions.  And it can also leave us scared.  And raw.  And confused.  And sometimes we just have to live that pain for a bit, until it gets better.

Through our struggles, we uncover unlikely communities, friends, and connections.

I want them to understand that the human capacity to make mistakes, and also to forgive, is a wondrous fact of life.  That our bodies and hearts have the ability to heal.  To transform.  To adapt.   But that we are also vulnerable to pain.  And heartache.  And suffering.  And that vulnerability is where we do our best growing.

Sometimes it won’t be so easy to understand what to do next.  The decisions won’t always be simple.  It’s a delicate dance with the line.  A fine piece of thread pulled taut between right and wrong.  Okay and not okay.  An infinite line; pulsing, moving, under the constant pressure of life.  And it will be stressful sometimes, but that they aren’t doing anything wrong.  In fact, it means they’re doing it right.  

Things will happen that we can’t explain.  And that sometimes life can feel really unfair.  But that it all happens in balance.  And when you’re lucky, you have to remember just how lucky you are.  And be grateful. 

Humility is not just a word.  It is something you must learn.  It is hard.  It takes work.  But it pays off.  Being honest.  Being willing to be wrong.  Open to the discovery.  Prepared to let someone else win sometimes.  Prepared that others might see something differently, and that you might both still be right. 

There are some basics, though.  You should be nice to people.  Be kind.  Be generous of heart and spirit.  And no promises, but generally, the scales will always try to tilt back to some kind of equilibrium.  The good days will counter the bad.  But it will take patience.  And genuine bull-headedness.  And sometimes the formula won't work.

But maybe these are things that you can only learn as you go.  Perhaps my desire to protect them won't really change anything, other than remind them that they're loved.  Because some things only make sense as you live it.  And survive it.  Storms make trees take deeper roots.  

Dolly’s always right.

Change Gonna Come

It would be a lie to say that these last two weeks have not been a complete and total mindfuck.  And though each day my heart gets less achy, and I have stopped irrationally bursting into tears over mundane activities, what’s left is a lot of questions, and a busy brain, and a lot of picking things up and putting them back down again and not knowing what to do next.  And an abnormal amount of anxiety.  Which I guess is normal. 

The hardest part has been the adjustments to my routine.  The not looking at my phone a thousand times a day in anticipation for his calls or his texts, and the adjustment of my disappointment when indeed there is no message waiting for me.  The going to bed and waking up alone part, and knowing its not just a week apart or a business trip.  The eating meals solo part.  The not sharing of all the funny and weird things that happen in a day with someone part.  All parts that suck.  All parts that are messing with my head right now.  Which is just something I’ve got to get used to again.

And to complicate matters, in the midst of all of this, I’ve changed jobs.  Same location but with a new title, a new supervisor, and a new office.  And lots more responsibility.  Over the week, I’ve kept myself distracted by packing up my books and files and trucking across campus to settle in somewhere new, to learn new routines with new office-mates, new procedures and protocols.  Try and pick up where someone else has left off and wondering all the things you worry about in a new job—Will I like this?  Will I be good at it?  Can I do it?

And to even further the disruption, I’m moving to a new apartment to be closer to work in a little under a week, to give the dog a fair chance at being able to pee at least every 8-10 hours with my new schedule.  So my house is a disaster zone of cardboard boxes, newspapers, and cleaning supplies.  And I’ve unearthed things I had forgotten I owned.  And have found dust bunnies the size of full-grown antelope hiding under bookcases I haven’t moved in two years.  And little corners of “gems” covered in dirt and dog hair, nestled in with 45 million pairs of shoes, some random dried-out art supplies, and a magazine (or nine) about food or cottage-style decorating.  I’m all of the sudden feeling like an episode of Hoarders.

Sidenote: I also have three papers left to write for a class that ends on the 22^nd of the month and I just made the choice to scrub the top of the refrigerator with bleach over writing a paper due on Tuesday.  Can we say, avoidance tactics?

I’m 100% overwhelmed.  All the routine changes.  All the stress.  All the must-dos but have-no-energy-or-time-to-dos.  Oh and the just-don’t-wanna-dos.  Like at all.  All the gross piles of dirt and dust and dog hair.  Blech.

And thus my second avoidance tactic (besides the compulsive cleaning and the previously unmentioned, but not to be forgotten friend, vodka) to all of this change has been to put on my softest, oldest, cut-up t-shirt, remove any clothing articles that are binding and/or restrictive to my fat rolls and/or lady parts, and to get under the covers and hide.  And to watch depressing television.

Which, for the record, hasn’t helped much either.  Because I choose shows like Treme and Intervention, which provide temporary relief, as I always think, “well at least I’m not addicted to heroin, have three crack-addicted babies, and/or am recovering from a natural disaster.  And furthermore,” I think, “at least the police aren’t corrupt and there aren’t entire groups of people in Baltimore being ignored because of their race and class”…oh wait.  Nevermind on that one (and damn you, David Simon, for thinking of all the things that make me angry, anxious, and disgusted and making it into yet again another highly-addictive HBO series). 

I’ve blogged about this show before.  And I can’t say it’s the best show on television, but the scenes of jazz fest make me smile and the music makes my heart swell.  Despite the often cheesy storyline, it didn't stop me from watching 11 episodes over the last 4 days.  There are these great scenes with New Orleans legends and they all make me pine for home and for the South.  The Mardi Gras Indians give me goosebumps and I get so goddamned hungry watching the food.  So it’s been a good distraction, albeit a depressing one.

And the whole lying under the covers hiding from the world gig makes me want to go home.  To my mountains.  I lie in bed and wish for the ability to take off on a whim and just escape it all, and to not risk failing a class or losing my job in the process.  To roll the windows down, take the long, windy road home, and sing Gillian Welch until my voice cracks and the sound of cicadas and the river wash me out.  To yell all of my anxieties and worries into the thickets of honeysuckle and wild blackberries, knowing nobody is gonna yell back.  Or judge me.  Unless it’s a black bear.  Or a wild turkey.  And they’re not judging.  They’re just hoping I don’t have a gun.  I crave home and the comfort of the mountains.  The smell of my childhood.  And though I’ve worked hard to surround myself with artwork and pictures that substitute home, it’s just not the same. 

One of the perks of packing up everything I own over the last few days has been that I’ve found pictures and objects that comfort me, things I haven’t looked at in years.  I’ve found sweet cards written to me from my nephews and pictures from high school.  I’ve read ridiculous comments in my yearbooks and remembered all the good, and sometimes sad & hard times I’ve already been through in this little life of mine.  I’ve also managed to squeak a few more days of life out of my previously dead and ancient laptop and dig through the thousands of songs I’ve uploaded over the years.  What a joyful surprise it was to try one last time to plug this sucker in and for it to actually work.  To find the playlists I made for my last breakup and the ones from college that I made for falling in love (and for getting drunk).  The ones I made for when I needed to feel like a real liberal-arts college feminist (oh, Ani).  The ones I made to gain street cred from my students at my first Baltimore City middle school.  The country songs, the bluegrass songs, all of it.  It’s been over a year since I’ve been able to turn on this computer, let alone listen to any of my music.  And I’ve found good company with these old friends. 

I’ve always identified myself as part artist.  But when asked about my medium, I never know what to say.  I’ve played music over the years—a couple years on a piano, a few more on the saxophone.  I sang in a few choirs.  Did musical theatre in high school.  I’ve painted.  I write this blog and some bad poetry, too.  I’ve woven a basket or three.  I’ve thrown pots.  I can knit.  If there were an arts & crafts showdown, I’d take home a prize.  I’m all over shrinky-dinks.  And collages.  But an artist artist I am not. 

I do, however, have a special love affair with music.  Music has magic in it.  And healing power.  And I’m lucky to come from a family of musicians and to have had real music in my life since the day I was born.  It’s been a constant source of energy in my life and the first place I turn to when I can’t figure something out.  Most of my best childhood memories involve live music—or food—or both.   Which is why good live jazz can give me goosebumps and bring tears to my eyes.  And classic rock and roll puts me in a quiet, peaceful state of mind.  And zydeco and bluegrass wakes up that little rhythm monster inside of me and I can’t sit still.  I have to dance.  Or I hear the sound of African drums and I immediately sink low into my hips and begin to rock.  It’s a reflex.  Like blinking.  Or breathing.

So it makes sense that through this grieving process I’ve hardly had a quiet moment. Today’s playlist has included a lot of Allison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams, Nancy Griffith, Patty Griffin, and Gillian Welch.  Music that allows me to close my eyes and transport myself to Western North Carolina.  To a living room with my sisters and their babies.  To a kitchen with my mama.  Music that returns me to my roots.  To my foundation.  The same voices that coached me through my hardest teenage years, nestled in with those who kept me awake for those all-nighters in college, are right here.  Sharing their secrets and revealing their souls.  They’ve been right by my side encouraging me, strengthening me, and keeping me in check that there’s always somebody else worse off (thank you, country music) and that I should probably stop whining. 

Reminding me that there are things that are unshakable in my soul.  Parts of me that will never budge.  No matter how much the world changes around me.  No matter how much life hurts.  That home is inside me, no matter what.