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.

Resolutions

I suppose late January is a tad late for real resolutions.  The truly dedicated and focused resolutionaries (like revolutionaries, but more focused) starting working on their lists of things to resolve back in November, allowing December for tweaking, editing, and reflection, and published that sucker at midnight December 31^st, 2011 so that January 1^st, 2012 could start with a bang and genuine determination.  They checked box one.  Two. Three.  And by now they’ve already lost 10 pounds and said “I’m sorry” to at least five people.  And probably sponsored a starving child in Somalia.  Or something.

Which would be awesome if that’s how my brain worked.  But it doesn’t.  And that’s okay.  And at least I’m self-aware of that, much to the detriment of my highly-focused and hyper-organized friends and colleagues.  Instead, I’ve somehow survived the first month of 2012, in my rogue state of dis-resolve.   I also have invented at least three words already in this post, and am likely to invent at least three more.  Which is also okay.


I'll start this rambling self-indulgent post with an existential idea:  In the first few weeks of 2012, I’ve come to recognize that time is nothing but numbers, cells, memories, life, air, nouns, action verbs, and breathing.  2012 has also started with chronic tonsillitis and an ear infection, which has perhaps influenced my judgement.  Allow me to re-focus.  Here's what I hate about January: bacterial infections and resolutions.

The thing is, resolutions are basically goals, wrapped in guilt and laced with reflections on bad choices made in “previous lives”.  I always joke that I don’t believe in goals, which is only partially true.  I do believe in some goals.  Like I want to be rich.  And go to Africa always.  And do work I love.  And be happy.  And get access to Rachel Zoe’s accessories closet.  (Oh, and marry George Clooney, which is less of a goal and more of a challenge).  But I do kind of find myself fighting against the norms of things I “should” do.  Especially if I “should” do them because I’ve already done whatever it is I “should stop” doing, and have already learned that whatever it was didn’t kill me, or hurt me (well, not that I can SEE anyway), made me feel awesome, but is socially unacceptable (bacon-wrapped jalapenos, stuffed with cheese, por ejemplo).

Other examples:

1. I refuse to work out in January because I should.  If I work out in January, it’s because I want to.   It’s never for health.  Ever.
2. I refuse to give up smoking or cursing or drinking because I should.  If I give up smoking or cursing or drinking, it’s because I want to.  Or because I'm dying and they told me I had to.
3. I refuse to stop eating butter on my bread, cooking with bacon grease, or eating red-meat, gluten, or lactose because I should.  If I give up those things, check my pulse.  I’ve probably died.

I just read this great book for a community book discussion at work, Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.  The book is actually intended for young adults, is super-short, and a really quick read if you haven’t read it yet.  Technically, I think I still fit in the young adult category, in the same way I still think I can buy accessories from the junior’s section of Nordstrom.  The book is sweet and poignant.  A tale of a young man growing up.  We readers watch him struggle with his racial identity as he transfers schools and battles adolescence.  We watch him grapple with grief and manage the addictions of those around him.  The story made me laugh, cry, and smile.  Mostly, it made me remember my own struggles and quiet accomplishments in childhood.  Not because I was quiet (ever), but because growing up is sort of this silent process that just happens.  And before you know it you’ve traveled all these miles and covered all this ground (and blown out all of these candles) and your accomplishments start to pile up, quietly.  Serenely.  Unostentatiously.  Parts of it are loud and glaring and ostentatious.  But others, almost silent.

In looking back at high school, and middle school, I mostly remember the anxiety of it all.  While I was a very lucky kid, with many blessings, I, like most people, had my fair share of loss and tragedy.  These years are hard for everyone—some more than others.  I’ve never met someone who doesn’t reflect on middle school and high school with a kind of warrior-like stance, almost congratulating themselves on surviving those years, and reflecting on how many times something really bad could have happened, or perhaps, did. 

I remember sitting around with my friends, something we did a lot of in a small mountain town with little else to do but sit and think and talk and watch and laugh, trying to imagine what the world held for us.  We’d spend our summers in the rivers, chasing tadpoles and leaping off waterfalls, trying to imagine what the rest of it would be like.  It.  Life.  I had wild dreams about the kind of person I would become someday.  When I grew up.  Words that make me laugh now.  Grow up.  When does that happen, anyway?  We’d be architects and teachers and artists.  Doctors and lawyers.  And obviously, writers for SNL.  Because we assumed we were the funniest teenagers on earth (and we might have been).

For most of us, these dreams were largely shaped by characters in movies and television shows that we compulsively watched because we had nothing better to do respected.  I was that teenager who, rather than watching the forbidden early days of MTV or Jerry Springer (which I also watched, don’t be fooled), watched black and white movies from the 40s and old episodes of SNL over and over again, memorizing to heart the humor of greats like Gilda Radner and Jane Curtin.  And the newly emerging names—Molly Shannon, Amy Poehler, and Tina Fey.   Chris Farley.  Phil Hartman.  Tracy Morgan.  My friends.  (They understood me better than most).

Because of the movies I watched, and the people I idolized, naturally, I assumed my first car would be a Scout.  Like Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats or Renee Zellweger in Empire Records (movies, and women, who defined what it meant to be young and female in the 1990’s).  I envisioned my Scout would be red.  And old and rusted in just the coolest of places.  I’d cover it in bumper stickers, ensuring that everyone in our small, largely conservative town would know I was liberal, pro-choice, and really interested in world peace (or whirled peas, because I was also very clever).  I’d wear my homemade tie-dye, and my overalls, and look shabby chic awesome all the time (and not like a chubby-Asheville-lesbian).

Before I understood anything about Sallie Mae or Toyota Financing Services, I imagined my future professional life would be some blend of Flora Poste from Cold Comfort Farm, Laney Boggs from She’s All That (before she got all de-geeked and prom-queened), and Amelie Poulain from, well, duh, Amelie.  And I’d be the mountain version of all of those women mixed together in a very Gillian Welch kind of way.  I’d travel the world.  And write stories.  And be published by twenty.  I’d have an art studio in the mountains and a cabin by the sea.  I’d paint.  And reupholster furniture.  And have a pottery studio.  I’d be smart, wispy, artistic, and unbelievably likable.  I’d be pretty in that way that everyone says, wow she just woke up like that.  Unbelievable.   

I’d drive around the windy mountain roads in my Scout, in my tie-dye, collecting junk from trash heaps, taking it to my art studio, magically transforming it into something from Anthropologie, and sell it for $2,500 to rich tourists who wanted folk art.  Half of which I would donate to Sierra Club.  Or Planned Parenthood.  Because you know, money didn’t make me lose my values.

Or maybe I’d move to New York and become best friends with everyone from SNL.  And become the funniest woman alive.  And be filthy rich and marry George Clooney.

Or maybe I’d go to art school.  Or architecture school.  Or medical school.  And become a pediatrician in rural African villages.

And I actually thought all of these things, and a million other dreams that were equally as elaborate and ridiculous and filled with “what-ifs” and “then-I’ll-bes” and “after-that-I’ll-gos”.  Dreaming on the side of a rock next to a river in Western North Carolina.  Because being a kid is all about dreaming.  And trying on different people’s shoes and shirts and pants (or skirts).  And trying to find who you are in the sea of all the choices of what you can be.  And negotiating the choices you don’t have—your race, your gender, your sexuality, your zip code—with the choices you do have—are you kind, are you generous, are you fair.  Are you a good person.  Do you brake for squirrels.

And the older I get, the more I recognize that my wants in life are fairly simple, despite my growing taste for couture.  I don't need it to be so fussy.  I just need it to be functional.  And happy.

One of my sisters recently moved to the mountains with her husband and daughter, and despite the fact that they had to fight snakes out of their walls before they could move in and don’t have cell phone coverage anywhere near their home, I’m actually quite jealous of the simplicity of the choice they’ve made.  Of the life my niece will have growing up on her very own patch of mountain.  Learning rules and cues from nature and from rivers and even snakes in the grass.  Of the opportunities she’ll have to learn about how powerful those mountains are in grounding our spirits and growing our wings.  Us mountain girls know secrets about the world that others don’t know.  And I feel confident they’ll be whispered to her while she sits in her backyard and dreams about what the world holds for her someday.

And here in 2012, I drive a Toyota.  Not a Scout.  And if I had money, I’d probably drive a Lexus SUV (hybrid, duh).  And while I do have overalls, they make me look pregnant and I only wear them when I’m house-painting.  Or if I get up really early for the farmer’s market in the hottest parts of summertime.  And I have my old tie-dye tucked away in a drawer, but every time I wear it someone cracks a Bob Marley joke and asks me to pass the bowl.   I ditched pre-med freshman year because I discovered my social life (and my real life calling, urban education).  And somewhere between 1995 and 2012, I discovered Marc Jacobs.  And Michael Kors.  And conflict-free diamond jewelry.  Which means that my ideas of being a crafty mountain woman went down the drain when I discovered quilted leather and couture.  Plus I moved to Baltimore and there is totally NOT a market here for mountain folk art.  And I’m not married.  And I don’t have babies (that I’ve birthed, although I have many that I’ve claimed as partially mine).  And I do work that fulfills me.  I’m proud of my education.  Even if it means I’ll likely turn 30 without a husband.  Or a baby on my hip.  And these things are all okay.   

And if I had made resolutions in November, and edited them in December, this might be what they’d look like:

• To spend more time with my family and friends.  Nothing is more important than those you love.
• To spend more time doing the things I love—reading newspapers, writing, and creating art.
• To travel freely, without schedules.  To explore as I can, when I can.  To meet new people.  Be nice.  Learn from others.  And that it's totally acceptable to get lost on purpose.
• To choose to be quiet more often.  To watch and listen more.  Talk less.
• To keep it simple, stupid.
• To walk the dog more.
• Okay, okay.  To probably STOP eating cookies for breakfast.  Whatever.  

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.

A Christmas Post

Over the last few years, my trips to the mountains have become few and far between.  Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I can’t decide which, I’ve become increasingly more embedded in Baltimore.  It was just a few short years ago that I made threats of all levels (serious, idle, petty, etc.) that I’d pack up my shit and move back to the Carolinas where life felt quieter; more peaceful and tolerable.  Where I was sure the grass was greener.  And though I joked about the double-wide on the back of my mom’s property, it would be a lie to say I hadn’t actually thought about how to make it look “less trailer-y”, just in case.  But now that Baltimore is home, it has become harder to pick up and head south on a whim.  It’s no longer as easy as unplugging the refrigerator in my dorm room, shoving all of my dirty clothes into the backseat and drinking three red bulls to drive through the middle of the night.  Oh no.  Now there are bills to pay before I leave town.  And phones to forward.  And a dog to worry about.  And “out-of-office” email statuses to put in place.  Not to mention the compulsive need to clean my house before I leave it—because apparently once you become a “grown –up”, it no longer becomes acceptable to bring home dirty clothes for the holidays (and heavens knows, no more dirty dishes…last time I did that I really got the stink eye).  Prepping to go out of town for anything more than overnight requires at least three days of planning and list-writing.  Oh the epic lists I’ve written. 

Yesterday I began one such journey, and made the ten-hour trek south for Christmas.  Winding down the Shenandoah and into the Blue Ridge, I was remembering how beautiful this drive was just a few short months ago.  Back in October, autumn had taken those hills hostage and turned every last leaf a vibrant color before letting them go.   Now those leaves were gone, quickly turned into dust and mulch.  Now, in December, the hills were speckled with the slightest dusting of white snow, as if a baker had been flying above and had accidentally dropped a pound of confectioners’ sugar gently over the rolling peaks. 

And though I despise these long drives, mainly because I despise driving, I’ve almost become dependent on the built-in reflection this time alone in the car affords me.  This time to let my brain talk as much as it needs to, without anyone calling the cops to report a crazy lady talking to herself.  I just assume everyone driving past me thinks I have on a wireless handset, or that I’m singing out loud to the radio.  The drive north is much less satisfying.  Once I get about halfway through Virginia, the landscape becomes increasingly less interesting and the mountains get smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror.  But heading south is another story all together.  The mountains get bigger and more beautiful with each mile marker.  By the time I get to Tennessee I often have the urge to pull over and just get outside.  I want to inhale deeply and purge all the toxicity that builds up in my little city brain.  I want to find a way to wrap the purple-blue mountains up into a little marshmallow that I can eat.  Like wonka-vision. 

And because these trips are seasonal, they often coincide with a holiday, which generally involves family, which generally means things get complicated, which generally means I’m anxious for days leading up to my departure.  By the time I hit the mountains I’m desperate to release my anxiety.  To just pour it out in the river and watch it rush away in the blue-green murk of the rapids.  To feel comforted.  To let the mountains absorb my burdens.  To carry what feels so heavy.
 
Christmas has notoriously been a hard holiday for me.  Which is not to say that I don’t enjoy Christmas.  In fact, it’s quite the contrary.  I recognize that I’m almost 28 years old, but I can’t make that six year old girl inside me contain my excitement over Christmas morning.  When I was little, I’d wake up at 4 in the morning and was forbidden to actually touch the presents.  Instead, I’d quietly tip-toe my wild-curly-haired self out into the living room and sit on the couch and just look at them all with awe.  All the precious boxes so tidily wrapped and carefully stacked.  Then I’d sit and watch black and white movies on the television until it was bright enough outside and I could get away with waking up my college-age sisters without them biting my face off.  Come to think of it, it’s probably no wonder my siblings didn’t have kids until their 30s.  I probably was the best birth control they could have had.  I was totally oblivious to any signs of hangovers or a lack of desire to “care about Christmas”.  Oh no.  I cared about one thing and one thing only.  PRESENTS.  And I’d like to think I’ve finally put that little girl to bed, but to be honest, I’m just as excited to open presents tomorrow as I ever was.  Although perhaps far more aware of what presents COST now that I have to pay for them, too.

But in more recent years, the holiday has become harder, despite the little girl inside me who still believes.  For my family, it isn’t as simple as everyone gathering in one place to celebrate.  Christmas, and most holidays, get spread out over several days (sometimes weeks), and several cities, and I sometimes find myself eating three or four “Christmas dinners” before it’s all said and done and the ball drops for the New Year.  We’re the modern American family, facing the modern American dilemma, in all our re-married with kids glory.  Christmas gets more complicated, too, because it’s no longer the focus of the other 11 months of the year.  Other obligations pile up, you run out of time to properly Christmas shop (and you never had the money to begin with), and you start to realize just how much crap there is out there to buy and by given (and just how much YOU DON’T WANT any of it).


In just a week, I head back to West Africa with 18 undergraduates.  While I’m so excited, this simultaneously makes me enormously anxious because I’m basically responsible for ensuring that these guys all come back in one piece, and that they’ve all had a relatively awesome experience, and that no one is pregnant or married.  This requires months of planning, hundreds of neurotic, alphabetized, highlighted lists, and lots of white wine (for consumption during planning, not teaching).  But it’s also more than that.  Though I’ve traveled back and forth many times now, I can’t ever seem to quite prepare myself enough for what really happens to my spirit in this place called Ghana.  I have to begin to prepare my heart for what I see, for the unthinkable poverty I encounter and for the breathtaking beauty that I see.

And I’m preparing myself for the next few days of siblings and too many cookies, and the noise of children happily ripping open wrapping paper.  And drinking too much wine and eating too much butter.  And trying to make sense of it all just a week before heading to a place where what I have can make me feel heavy and glutinous.  Where the giving I’ve done in the holiday season can leave me feeling shallow and vain.  But where I feel alive in a way that is raw and enlightening.


And somehow it's already Christmas day (although it is still very, very early).  And frankly, I'm in a bit of a state of disbelief.  At my feet, the dog has buried herself under a handmade quilt and snores in a slumber that is deep and heavy.  I've just come home from midnight service, wrapped a few last minute gifts, and am sitting awake in a fit of anxiety trying to make myself go to sleep.  Trying to remind myself about the six year old girl in my soul who will wake me up in just a few hours to go and sit and admire the gifts.  About the little girl inside me that still believes. 

Merry Christmas, friends.  Wishing you and yours a blessed Christmas and health, happiness and peace in the 2011.  And may we all believe just enough to keep us honest.

Two-headed monster

Sometimes after I’ve been on vacation for a while or, say, I've spent two weeks in another country (or on another continent), I have this sobering re-entry into the real world.  Into my real life.  For the short amount of time I’m away from my daily life, I disconnect just long enough to remember what life can be like when it isn’t a total bat-shit crazy race.  I’m reminded of another kind of life that exists—“Island Life”, I call it.  And I lust for ways to integrate island life into my Baltimore life.  My noisy, has-and-wants-too-much wandering life.

When I was in college I’d sneak away to my quiet, picturesque mountain town during holidays and breaks and I’d so quickly fall back into my old patterns.  I’d hang out with the people I’d known since toddlerhood, cracking the same old jokes since 1985, and falling into a kind of lazy comfort that only comes from years and years of life shared with friends and family.  I’d drive the long way home just to see the sunset over the mountain ridge.  I’d leave my house and take my ancient Honda station wagon, covered in liberal, peace-mongering bumper stickers, “up in the forest” (which is what we’d say when we’d take the windy road up into the mountains and into the national park that covers a large portion of the county) and park my car along the side of the road.  There are hundreds of spots where you can just wedge yourself between the trees and the river and listen to the noise it all makes when you’re quiet.  And I would sit, often stunned, next to that river, comparing my two worlds.  The noise of the water just loud enough that I was comfortable thinking whatever I wanted—no one else could possibly hear it.  Here was this life that was really quite charmed—safe and secure, nestled between the river and the valley.  I knew everyone I needed to know—and they knew me.  I didn’t have to prove much to anyone anymore because they’d known me since I was in diapers.  They knew what I was capable of (and they knew my faults, too).  Life, in general, was pretty quiet and slow.  Things happened gradually.  People lived pretty simply.

Then there was this new life I’d discovered in this bizarrely large city called Baltimore and this small, wooded, suburban college campus.  I could never find my way anywhere (accept around the one loop road that outlined my college), the city roads made no sense to me, the drivers honked and drove too fast, and these “beltways” that wrapped themselves around Baltimore and Washington, D.C. felt more like boa constrictors than highways, slowly choking the life out of the communities they “belted”.  But there was this group of people I’d met who were so much like me it scared me (because that didn’t happen often in that small town of mine).  They were liberal and progressive and snarky and thought the same weird things I thought were funny to be funny, too.  There were things in this city that were wholly new to me—things that scared and excited me, equally.   I encountered people and situations I thought only existed in movies (uhh…lesbians are real!?).  I made all kinds of messes.  And mistakes.  It was exciting and shiny and new and I had to work, for the first time in a long time, to have an identity—to find that same “comfort” I’d had in my cozy little hammock of Western North Carolina.  Oh and did you see The Wire? Yeah.  It was like that, too.

I’d take the flight, or ten hour drive, back to Baltimore, fretting over the transition that would inevitably happen in the coming days.  The giving up of what I knew for the gnawing discomfort of the unknown.  The speeding up of life.  The loss of my sweet, subtle southern accent.  The lack of understanding people had about where I was from and what real life could look like without giant shopping malls, access to designer anything (because we had Sky City and Wal-Mart…take your pick), or anything too complicated, really.  Not to mention there was this charming naïveté I’d come to love about the people I grew up with.  It couldn’t be more different from the cynicism and biting commentary I was growing to love from my new Northeastern friends (although I wasn't entirely sure I really liked it just yet).  I almost felt like the two worlds couldn’t possibly share space in my identity.  It was too exhausting to go back and forth.  It was basically culture shock, every single holiday and vacation.

And I’ve discovered, for better or for worse, that gradually, I’ve shifted my identity.  I’m still from that small mountain town and my childhood is an inescapable part of who I’ve become—but I’ve modified my home base.  I’ve allowed a lot of complication into my life.  It’s messier and noisier than I ever expected it to become.  I care too much about the brands on my feet and the realness of the pearls in my ears.  I still fall in love with all the wrong people (and some of the right ones, too).  Baltimore has become my home, without asking (rude), and while I’ve come to love the noise and rats and quirky appeal of Charm City, there is still something wonderful about getting away.  About sneaking out at the crack of dawn and watching the harbor fade in the distance as I head south (or just out).

It never fails, though, that the getting away triggers all these questions and leads me into this deep, dark journey into the “person I’ve become”.  And it awakens the Piscean gypsy in me that feels uncomfortable with being so settled—so embedded in a lifestyle that I can’t quickly pack up and leave from without a moving truck and at least a month to do laundry and buy boxes.  It makes me think questions like, “Have I become the asshole I never wanted to become?” or “Would I like me if my high school me met me now?”

There is no doubt that Baltimore has changed me.  Working in a low-income urban community in an inadequately resourced public school system will change your life.  It changed the way I think and the way I talk and the way I see the rest of the World.  It changed how I think about systems and education and accessibility.  In fact, it changed my whole path.  I never intended to stay this long.  I had a one year plan.  This turned into a five year plan.  And it looks like it’s quickly become a ten year plan.  I think I suck at plans.

And the timing of this internal babbling is pretty spot on.  For those of you who work in higher education, you know what the months of August and September are all about.  It’s like our January.  Our spring.  Our Easter.  Also, our living hell.  We are reborn into a new academic year with a new freshman class of students, so wide-eyed and brimming with excitement and fear and all those feelings of being torn between their old life and the new life they’ve yet to realize.

These last few weeks have also been trying, to say the least.  These are the weeks where we all cuss under our breath, all day long, wondering why the hell we pissed away June and July with retreats and half-days and week-long vacations (although if I recall correctly, my summer wasn't particularly quiet, either).  These are the weeks we work 10 hour days and weekends without even realizing it (what day is it, anyway?).  These are the days we deal with hovering parents and toxic levels of anxiety and lots of tears and lots (and lots) of whining.

But these are also the days where I find myself questioning, just like the first-year students, "Where have I come from?" And "where am I going?"  Sometimes the motivational talks and speakers and events continue to reach me, and to move me (perhaps more than the students?).  The messages of "explore with wonder and awe" and "challenge yourself to grow" are messages I have to remind myself every morning.  Because it's easy to become okay with the mundane routine.  It's easy to get caught in the cycle of blah and to forget that a part of living life is actually enjoying it.

As I've been readjusting to a new semester, a new year, and frankly still trying to process all the things I'm thinking and feeling about this last trip to West Africa, I'm feeling contemplative and like I'm just on the verge of some new breakthrough--some new insight into my world. 

When I'm traveling or headed home, I often don't look at a watch.  I try my damndest not to have a schedule or a plan.  I try my best to go with the flow (although the "work" me has been so well trained that it often takes days to really slow down and disconnect).  But coming back is like a slap in the face.  My inbox has piled up, I've forgotten just how mean people really are, and the soft, quiet, subtlety of not really caring what happens is replaced by the loud, blinking, anxiety of my working life. 

This week I've been having lots of long talks with friends and colleagues about the nature of life and the nature of our work in higher education and in the community.  These have been deep, philosophical conversations that ebb and flow somewhere between, "why are privileged white people so stupid!?" and "does the work we're doing even really accomplish anything?"  And somewhere in those discussions, too, is this private battle of mine between these two people inside me, like a two-headed monster; the "Baltimore" me who has become hardened and bold; the small town girl who still remembers what the frogs on the pond sound like at night and how the dew smells first thing in the morning.  The girl who empathizes with the urban poor and all the issues wherein (and has become pretty vocal about it, too) and the girl who understands small-town values and who wasn't shocked when George W. Bush was elected again.  The girl who has spent months of her life in places like Ghana and Benin, experiencing new cultures and religions and tastes and sounds and people and the girl who remembers being afraid to drive to the other side of the county because it was too far away.  The girl who still smiles anytime she smells honeysuckle and the girl who doesn't even notice anymore when a rat darts across her path in the alley.   

The girl who is still trying to figure out how to have the best of both worlds.  And how to be happy about it.    

Homecoming

Most people seem to get seasonal depression in the winter. The sun stops shining and weeks of dreary, rainy, cold grey dominate all parts of life. Sometimes it snows, but mostly it doesn’t. It’s just cold. Slushy, dirty ice water gathers on the side of the road and cars get covered in white, dusty salt. I’m weird, I guess. I love the winter. I don’t mind the cold. I don’t mind the grey. My worst seasonal depression happens in fall, when I miss home the most. I struggle with myself in the fall. I get wanderlust. I make grand life plans (life plans that I rarely keep). I talk about moving home. Growing up I loved the fall. I loved the way the oak trees that surrounded my house would drop their thick, fat acorns on the cracked stone driveway. The leaves would slowly turn from summer’s fresh green to brilliant shades of red, yellow, and orange. Our local football team would begin their season and my friends and I would spend our evenings in the crisp, fall, mountain air cheering for the home team. I’m not even that huge of a football fan these days, but high school football was a permanent feature of my late adolescence. We loved it. Our lives revolved around it. There was a palpable energy in those stands and a real community in my town that seemed to congregate on Friday nights. Everyone gathered there together. Like the biggest kitchen table you’ve ever seen.

I remember when it changed. When I moved away and I started resenting those days—feeling as though I’d come from the most backward, archaic town in the South. I moved to this small college in Baltimore and met people who, for the most part, came from glamorous northeastern cities and towns with progressive city councils and private school educations. They never had prayer in public school. They’d never heard people use racist slurs. I was in awe of this progression; it was my very own domestic culture shock. As I struggled with who I used to be, and more importantly who I was becoming, I said things I didn’t mean about where I was from. I told stories I shouldn’t have. I shared secrets about my small, beautiful, mountain town that only those of us lucky enough to have grown up there should be allowed to know—things that you just can’t understand unless you’ve been there. Unless you’ve seen it. I guess this is my own cathartic confession: guilt I’ve been holding onto for years. As I’ve gotten older, and struggled for that sense of home in my life that I always had growing up, I’ve started to recognize just how much that small town taught me about how to behave in this world. I feel horrible that I haven’t always loved where I’m from—like I’ve committed the ultimate betrayal to this place that now means so much to me.

Before my own grandmother passed a few weeks ago, my dearest childhood friend, Maggie, grieved for her own grandmother. I went home. This is what you do when you’re from where I’m from. You go home. You sit with people. You kiss cheeks and squeeze hands. You laugh. You cry. You eat. Maggie’s grandmother was a wonderful woman. Her funeral was such an incredible testimony to her life—nothing at all like the quiet, simple service we held for my own grandmother this last weekend. The small Baptist church filled with people who had in some way been involved in her life. This is also what you do when you’re from where I’m from. You go to funerals for people you barely know—because you know that it means a lot to the people who are still alive. The people who are grieving. The definition of family gets wobbly and almost anyone counts. In the middle of the service, a group of six or seven cousins got up and sang old-fashioned mountain music. They sang her favorite hymns. It was so moving I couldn’t help but cry. This thing, this simple, old-fashioned funeral, was all about home. This is what it means to be from a place that is simple and full of grace. This is what it feels like to be around people who believe in the power of prayer and faith. This is what it looks like when family lines are large and undefined; where songs get sung around out-of-tune family pianos. Where stories get shared and stretched over the dinner table. Where simple things are still simple things. This funeral reminded me about what it means to be from this place—how lucky I am. How blessed.

Coming over the mountain into the valley I've called home for my whole life, I always sigh with a deep breath. My cell phone coverage breaks. The radio crackles. I roll all the windows down, hoping I’ll catch a whiff of that unruly honeysuckle bush on the side of the road. I turn on something like Gillian Welch’s Revival and sing all the words as loud as I can sing them. Something in my heart clicks into place. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done this over the last twenty-six years. Every time I come home I hold my breath for this part. It’s like when you watch your favorite movie and there is a part you love so much that you can hardly stand to watch it; it feels like you’re too lucky to have that feeling on demand. There is this bend in the road where you start to go back down the mountain and suddenly all you see is this incredible panoramic mountain scene. It’s like my guilty pleasure. Within minutes you’re back in town. It’s done in an instant. But I love it. It means I’m home. And I hate that for so many years I couldn’t see it. I couldn't see anything but what I wanted to see. I only saw the red on the political map. I only saw the pick-up trucks and the trailers and the junk on front porches. I couldn’t see the things that mattered—the real beauty of this place. Not yet, atleast.

There is a distinct feeling I get when I get to a place I call home. There is a settled contentment in the pit of my belly. My body relaxes, my shoulders let loose, and my hips get low and wide. I feel grounded. I feel safe. I feel happy. I can take a deep breath and feel contentment as my lungs fill with air and release, slowly, with satisfaction. Over the years this place called home has become as undefined and wobbly of a word as family at a Baptist Church funeral. I’ve found home is in a lot of places. I’ve fallen in love with people and ideas all around the world. But nothing beats that mountain view. Nothing can compete with what my childhood taught me life was all about. Annie Dillard writes a lot of essays about nature. I’ve always connected to her work. She writes in A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: “Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.” This quote has somehow captured all that I feel about where I grew up.

I’ve moved to the creek. My life is complicated and messy and absurd. There is so much stuff in my life. But the mountains are home. They are quiet, and giant, and unshaken by my choices. In the chaos of the last few weeks, I’ve been reminded about what it means to have family. What it means to have faith. What it means to go home. In Ghana, people refer to this symbol Sankofa, a bird resting his head on his back, which symbolizes returning to one’s roots. Every now and then I need to go home. I need to return to my roots.

Today the weather turned cold. The leaves have already begun to fall. They hardly changed color this year and most certainly didn’t shine in brilliant shades of red and yellow. Autumn doesn’t happen here the way it happens in the mountains. I got sad. I missed the mountains. I wanted so desperately to be home. I had to push this desire to the side, recognizing my responsibility to my life in the creek, and simply dreamt about coming over that crest. I pretended I could see the mountains and the thousands of shades of orange the landscape becomes this time of year. I had to be satisfied with what I had in my memory. But deep in my heart, in the tiniest, most secret folds, I knew the truth about where I really wanted to be. And perhaps for now, that’s good enough.