Prayer

(This photo has nothing to do with anything I just like it. Chris and me walking up Central Park West over a year ago. Reminiscing...)

I am sort of melancholy today-- well, not me really, but I am feeling the emotional suckage from people I know and love who are hurting or ill or just plain old tired right now. My heart hurts because their heart hurts. I know we were called to live in community at times like this. We've all been there. And if not, hang on, cause it's coming. Sooner or later we all want to throw up our hands and walk away. Life's hard.

A friend of mine posted this verse on her blog- and I want to post it too. It's that good, for here and now, for what I needed to hear today. (This is from The Message, which isn't my favorite translation, but I liked the way this was stated.)

Meanwhile, the moment you get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good. Romans 8:26-28

At my new job, things are going well. I like change and newness and having a source of consistent income. I just struggle with getting the routine down. Not that I can't learn, I learn quickly; I write everything down my spiral: passwords, account numbers, who's who and what's what. When to order more half and half, who wants their mail as soon as it arrives and who not to chew gum in front of. But, I want to know everyone's name now so I can greet them properly. I want to be able to tell you where everyone sits now. I want to remember that when a caller asks for Don- they are actually asking for Dawn, and that Niki is a male. I want my own building pass. It'll come. In the meantime, they adore my southern accent- which I still don't hear. (Only after a couple glasses of wine...) Oh, well. As my friends have taught me, about this and so many other things, Embrace It. It's who I am.

Feeling Like Fall

It actually feels fall-ish today. But the weatherman did say that it is a bit cooler today than normal. This is the kind of weather that allows me to wear knee boots with socks instead of tights, short sleeved sweater-dresses (which I do own two of), and long sleeved t-shirts (but only before the sun goes down.) I've forgotten how windy it is here. It's so blustery- it's what makes it unbearable. That Wind.

Fall makes me want to cook. Big pots of white bean chili and taco soup. Pumpkin bread and Spice Cake and baked apple crumble. Anything that will make our house/ apartment/ 600 square-feet of space smell like cinnamon or spice or my momma's house.

I think I'm gonna try something new tonight- something spice-y and cinnamon-y and pumpkin-y.

Monday, Oct. 5th is our three year wedding anniversary, and I think my husband has something up his sleeve for our weekend. I was just told not to have plans between the time I get off work Friday at 6:00, until I go back Monday at 9:00. Unfortunately, I will not be off work on our anniversary- being a new employee and all & having already asked off the 10th- 22nd to go to Texas, nonetheless, we have the weekend.

Thus far (two days in) work has gone well, it's been what I expected and what I needed. I was even able to go to the gym this morning before heading out the door at 8:15. Winter- dark mornings and dark evenings, I just hate that. Oh, October... here you come!

Singing

I just love this picture. It was taken last fall somewhere in Vermont as we were "leaf peeping" which I am afraid we will be unable to do this year, with me working and going to Texas.... Fall is fabulous!

Music and singing are vital to my existence. I can not imagine not singing. Not having words and music and rhyme. I sing constantly. I mouth the words to the songs on my iPod while I'm at the gym. I mouth the words to Please Don't Stop the Music, Lady GaGa and Love Love Lockdown while I run through Central Park. I don't sing aloud- that would be absurd, but I do sing to myself, mouthing the words. It helps. I play air guitar. I drum along on the stationary bike. I don't care. I'm bringing sexy back and I'll be your naughty girl, cause I'm a slave for you. (All song titles... okay mom!)

Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I was listening to my song list titled 'worship' on my iPod while pumping my way through another forty minutes on the elliptical machine. (Some of my playlists include: melancholy, old school cool, running, workout 1, workout 2, workout 3, guitar guys, sunnyday, grind, praise and worship among others.) It was so great. I almost had to lift my hands in worship and give an altar call! Seriously, though, I think the large gentleman on the treadmill in front of me was scared I was about to start singing- aloud. I love that we can do that, worship God anywhere.

I have a friend who has two separate iPods, one for secular music and one for her worship music. I sort of like the idea. Sometimes it can seem a bit anticlimactic to listen to Alanis Morissett or The Doors after singing How Great is Our God or Revelation Song.

Employed

Today is my last day freedom. Doing whatever I want to whenever I want to do it. Tomorrow I start my job. As an employee. Not a temp. It's bitter sweet, honestly. I do realize that we, Chris and I, are so blessed and that having this opportunity, in itself, is a total God thing. But, I've liked doing my own thing for a very long time. Even as a temp, knew I could "get out" at any time, though I never did. This is a job. Permanent thing. Yikes! No really, I am thrilled.

Yes, this is me. I have a Masters Degree in Journalism and I am a receptionist. I don't care. I chose Journalism as my major my first year in college and I was going to stick it out. Four years later, I chose Journalism again as my masters, with an emphasis in Public Relations.

See, I've always liked to write. But, I knew as a writer I would never make money, so I chose Journalism. However, I knew journalists make no money either, they make about a dollar. (This was repeatedly told to us in journalism school, "You will not make money in radio or TV." "There is no money to be made working as a Beauty Editor at a magazine. "You will not be Katie Couric." BUT, at least it would be a guaranteed income, even if it was $24,000 a year- with a four year degree. Even if it was less than I made selling lotion at the mall. It would be a career and I could grow, move up, achieve tenure and then make a decent living. But around my sophomore year I realized I hated news writing. No adjectives. EVER. Just the facts. I found this ridiculously boring. But, I was going to finish school, so I did.

Public Relations was more my thing- event planning, networking, writing newsletters, giving speeches. So, I emphasized in PR in graduate school. So, at this point in my life I had five years of experience working in retail, a BS in Journalism, and a MJ. What do I do? I go work for a non-profit.

So, when me moved to NYC it took me awhile to boldly call myself a writer. I had lots of encouragement from out of work actors and jobless dancers. At least I felt better. So now I make more money as a receptionist in midtown than I would working in a job that my degree is in. I would work late nights, through the weekend, and make pennies. PENNIES. I have a friend who does this. It's sad. BUT, 9-5 doesn't make me Me. So, I just have to be resolved in that. I keep writing though. That's what's important. I use this blog as a warm-up. As a springboard. As a free-writing exercise.

Tomorrow I'll be an employee.

Touch

My mother always told me the importance of touch; hugging, putting a hand on someones arm, rubbing someones shoulders. She was a touchy, huggy mom. So, when I left my parents home in 1998 for college, my mom told me that I needed to hug someone everyday. (Now you know where I get it. I was raised by a hugging hippy and I LOVE IT!) But, I realize it's not for everyone.

Yesterday, I was supposed to meet a friend for early afternoon coffee, but when she called to let me know she was feeling a under the weather- between flying to Europe and then, on to the West coast, she needed the rest- and I made a last minute decision to get a massage.

I would get a massage every week if I could afford it, and unfortunately, I haven't had one since my birthday last March. (No, I don't count Chris rubbing my back for ten minutes before bed as a real massage. But I will gladly continue to be the recipient. It just doesn't count.)

It was kind of a spiritual experience for me, yesterday. Rose was her name and it may have just been the best massage ever, or maybe I was just ripe for it. It was the right moment. Inhale. Exhale. Release. The physicality of it is the majority of what enjoying a massage is about. But there's also the emotional and spiritual. It felt so great, that world between consciousness and sleep. That third dimension that I'm believing more and more exists. Just because we can not see things doesn't mean they aren't there. That in itself is what my personal beliefs are based on: Faith. However weird it may seem, I'm wondering more and more about time and space- about this linear time-line we have imposed. It's a man invoked measuring system, but God has no beginning and no end, no depth, he scatters my sin as far as the east is from the west, so what is time to God?

I'm not trying to go all twilight-zone here, or doubting what I know is truth. I just think there is more than we can see. Some larger force always at work. And Rose knew what I needed.

I allowed myself to rest, even just for a moment. I was calmed and reassured. With each stroke of her hands and arms, the in and out and rocking bodies, pressure so deep I almost cried, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be in my life. The waves of the ocean pounded beneath my skin, splashing on the tension- eroding the rocky edges. I was aware of separation and pulse and swaying limbs. The way my vertebrae are linked, stacked nicely atop one another, my big toe, my earlobes the place where my legs stop and my butt begins.

It was a dance. It was a mother rocking her child. It was a sailboat being brought to shore by the unseen winds. She guided me. She smoothed out the roughness and made me soft again. She made it safe.

I felt the familial presence of the heroines in my life, the women who lived lives before me. Their blood flows through my veins: Granny, Nana, Memaw and Momma- they rubbed and rocked me. They caressed my skin like they did when I was just days old. Like they did when I learned to walk. Like they did when I graduated kindergarten and played "Ukrainian Bell Carol" during my piano recital and tried on wedding dresses. They were proud of me, just because. And they still are.

Rose finished the hour-long massage by rubbing my head, my hair. With her fingers she applied pressure simultaneously to my forehead and my sternum for about six seconds before walking out the door, "Thank you Stefani." Touching my head and heart.

Walking

Today is the first day of a whole new season. I love it; Autumn and the idea of brand new beginnings and new things going on. Everyone's waiting in anticipation for something to happen. Something.

So what is it? And will we know when it gets here?

Fall is my favorite time of year, because it's so close to perfect. Not too hot or too cold, the colors in nature are breathtaking, and the Earth seems to be taking a big ole' stretch, preparing to settle in for winter. It's a little more hushed and reflective. And, of course there's the pumpkin. Anyone who knows me knows that I love pumpkin. Pumpkin anything. Even my house smells like pumpkin. I just love long-sleeved t-shirts and open windows.

Recently, I uncovered this verse and it continues to draw me back into reality as I live my life, "I, therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, urge you to walk worthy of the calling you have received, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, accepting one another in love, diligently keeping the unity of the Spirit with the peace the binds us." Eph. 4:1-3

(And, check out Hebrews 10:24-25)

I have constantly been asking myself, over the past week, if I am walking worthy of my calling. It's daunting. BUT, I know God sees me as so much more valuable and usable than I do. I just want to be where He needs me to be when He needs me to be there. Honestly, for me it's not a location thing, I feel like I have people in my life who value my friendship, just as I do theirs; we need each other. I just want to speak up when I need to and more importantly, shut up when I need to. He's prepared the way, all the hard work has been done. I wish I could see it all now- without the restriction of time and place.

I have to be honest. I don't live up to my full potential of what God's called me to be; none of us do. I waste alot of time making lists instead of doing. This quote from my devotional earlier this week keeps coming back to me: The proof of spiritual maturity is not how "pure" you are but your awareness of your impurity. That very awareness opens the door to God's grace. Philip Yancey

The Problem with Blogging is...

...everyone knows what's going on in my world at all times and therefore, cease calling, emailing or most forms of communication, because, after-all, they know what's going on with me. I'm not bitter, I'm just saying.

It's almost been a week since my last entry, and I realize some of you - okay, maybe one of the ten people that actually read this thing- have been thinking, "What is up with her?" So, this entry is not very artsy- it's more, "Here's what is going on in my world-y."

Well, I decided I need a job so, I've been a little busy running around to-and-fro and hither-and-thither. "Hi, here's me. Here's me on paper. I'd love to work here. I love this job. I need to work here. I need this job." I was discussing with a friend how interviewing sucks the life out of me like nothing else. You go in, meet. Meet with someone else for another thirty minutes. Leave. Get a call. Go in the next day. Meet someone else. And then never hear back from them. I mean, I can tell you this person's mother's name, their favorite restaurant in the city and where they vacationed in June, and they don't call again. When I first moved here and went on interviews I thought this was a good thing, to leave a business feeling like you have a new best friend. Now, I realize it's part of the deal. My friend says it's like dating.

And my mother-in-law is in town, keeping us very busy. Chris and I decided that the longer we are here, the easier it has become for guests to wear us out. Whereas the city used to energize me, it now drains me when I go all day long. 8:30AM- 10:30PM- We hit the city. The new things I experienced were the High Line -a unique park that just opened this season, a sunset boat ride around Manhattan and Burn the Floor on Broadway. I do love the city in the Fall--- which begins tomorrow!

So, I did accept a receptionist position that I will start on Sept. 28th. I'm looking forward to seeing family and friends in Texas in October. As well as eating good salsa, getting a haircut for a reasonable amount and meeting a couple of new babies! In other news, I got warts cut off my chin today, had a coffee/chocolate flavored cupcake for breakfast, and overheard a woman on my bus having a conversation with her mother. They were headed to the doctor where she would find out the sex of her baby.

I promise to be more creative tomorrow.

Londonderry Lane

There is a lady in my writing class who constantly writes these sort-of tribute pieces about loved ones- both dead and alive. Not that I want to write eulogies or compose a long one-sided story of all the great things about someone from my childhood or youth, it just made me think about how I struggle with characterization. I can tell you bits and pieces about someone, but I think that I disregard their entire image just to get to the point of the story: Me. I tell the reader what is applicable to the story, the minimum they need to know to understand- my characters are not very round. All my writings revolve around me. My problems, my struggles and my daily life are key to each of my pieces. Who I saw, what I did, how some event affected me. I know in a sense all creative non-fiction, essay and memoir writers are writing about how they view things, from their own perspective. But, I have so many great characters in my life!

So, I am setting out to write about someone. My Nana died when I was seventeen and I often feel like I hardly new her. This has bothered me because there is so much I do remember that I don’t want to ever forget. In an assignment I am giving myself I am writing about her. My research included looking at photos and asking family members what they remember. It’s hard though. The more I write the more I remember, then I hear what others remember and it makes me cry and “go there” again.

I am intrigued by the small things that make us think of someone; what conjures up those memories. Scents, sounds, songs, even TV shows can be tiny triggers into that time not so long ago.

Sugar-free sugar wafer cookies, African violets, canned Le Sueur peas, and rolly-pollies all remind me of my grandmother.

My sister shared this memory with me this week: “But the last thing I remember about Nana is her winter coat. When she was in the hospital the room was so cold so I put on her coat. While I sat by her bed she woke-up and rolled over to look at me. She said, “I have a coat like that,” I said, “This is your coat Nana.” She rolled back over. That is the last thing she said to me.”

Writing

So, I've been doing alot of this old thing called writing with a pen. It's kind of fun. Although I worry that I will never take what I've written down on yellow tablets or spiral notebooks and put it into something. Make it into something better. Since it takes longer to write it out, it takes more thought. The mind is forced to slow down to catch up with the hand, which is a good thing for me. It's more reflective. SLOWER than typing away. It's a body and soul connection and I like it.

I'm trying to write a piece about my Nana. She died when I was seventeen, which was so long ago. I don't want to forget her.

I'm also trying to find a job, which in all honesty, hasn't been so bad. I mean, I just set out on this mission yesterday, but I think so far so good. I have a few things in the hopper and we shall see. I don't want to just jump on the first opportunity or offer if I don't feel 100% at peace about it. And I don't want to underestimate MY value as an employee. I've done that for too long. Today I was told "You're someone who has it all, but doesn't want to do it all." Yes, that's me, looking for minimal responsibility and maximum pay. Seriously, I know on paper people are like, "You have a Masters degree in Journalism. Why do you want to be a receptionist?" Because. I want to write. That's why! I don't want a job that I have to take home with me.

Speak to us, Lord, till shamed by Thy great giving
Our hands unclasp to set our treasures free;
Our wills, our love, our dear ones, our possessions,
All gladly yielded, gracious Lord, to Thee. —Anon.

Nightmare

Last night I found my dream ridiculously boring and terribly slow, like some made-for-TV movie in the late 80’s, Candace Cameron staring in the lead roll. This was a dream with high-waisted pants and men in polyester polo-type shirts; lots of beards and forced dialogue.

Was all the communication strained back then, when Reagan was President and I wore shoes called Buster Browns? In dreams, especially during one’s own, you’re supposed to walk away with some greater sense of self, or learn something about your fellow man, but I simply wanted it to end as quickly as possible.

This is what I remember: Riding in some large, metal, 80’s car (was is a station wagon?)

There was a dinner at some touristy restaurant where we (whoever "we" were) were seated beside a table of about thirty well-to-do types all young marrieds with bratty children who ran around the table and yelled while adults drank scotch on the rocks and martinis with olives floating in them. The women had feathered hair and big dramatic eyes beneath blue eye shadow.

I wanted out of the restaurant and long car ride and the dream all together. It was slow and without action and plot. I think it started running in a loop- the first twenty minutes repeating over and over and over without resolve or conclusion. Who where these terrible actors and why were they getting on my nerves at 4:40AM?

The dream was slow and terrible and I roused myself awake just so that I could get away. I woke tangled in my arms, both of which were asleep, drool (or was it sweat) covered my right cheek that had been pressed against my new blue, pillowcase.

I pushed myself awake. I forced the weight on my bladder heavy enough to need to go to the bathroom. Arms asleep, junk in my eyes. My XL t-shirt that reads "T.A.S.S. Middle School Tack Team, No Speed Limit" became a web that constricted me as I sat on the edge of the bed. Opening and closing my hands, trying to force the blood back in the right direction; it had pooled around my elbows. I just kept thinking, "What a dumb, pointless dream." And annoying.

The large yellow moon now shone in the opposite window from where I left him last night when I laid down. A big, golden serving platter. Big enough for a cow to jump over and men to walk on and me to find awfully intriguing. More intriguing than that pointless dream.

And When I'm Not Really Feeling It...

"Jesus Christ- the same yesterday, today and forever." Hebrews 13:8

...he's still the same.

A small note card with this verse on it fell out of my calendar this morning and I see it alot, but today it meant something. Cause recently, the Word has felt so far away and distant and foreign. Irrelevant. Old. Boring at times. Been there?

Then this song started playing on my iTunes playlists while I was getting ready to head out the door to my interview.

Beautiful. God is good ya'll, and loves me in spite of it all.

Work, School, and All That Stuff

Tomorrow Chris goes back to school. Well, really last week he was "back to school" but it was just the two principals palling around, shooting the bull, and leaving at 3:00 on the dot. (Not that things did not get done, but I do know what time he left each day and he got to wear cargo shorts.) Tomorrow all the teachers are back- and Wednesday all the children will return. He says if it weren't for the kids working in education would be fine. (.... Just kidding, you know my husband loves his job and I would discuss that more here, but again, this blog is about me, not him....)

Tomorrow I have an interview that I am pretty excited about about. Another one of those friend of a friend..."Yeah, forward my resume" sort or things. I am meeting with a lady from HR and the gentleman whose name hangs over the door. I'll brush off my black skirt suit (sans pantyhose) and head out the door at 1:00 with my flip-flops on and 3" heels in tow.

I submitted an essay today and keep writing. I've enjoyed physically writing on a yellow tablet with an actual pen these past few days- taking in the last moments of warmth. But when I do this, write out words on paper, I think how I will probably never re-write it on the computer and it will never be made into anything more. No essay or story or quirky recollection of a time long ago. Oh well.

So, I made a list of why I want to go back to work. Not the real reasons like: I get bored and antsy in a 500 square foot apartment, or I refuse to sit another long, miserable winter in this box in the sky, or that I feel as if I need to justify my existence with something.... something other than a child.

So, if we had money- money besides the amount we barely squeak by on each month- then I would be able to:

1. Take that Yoga class

2. Get $100 haircuts and bikini waxes

3. Buy healthier foods for Chris and me (maybe cook a little more instead of relying on pancake mixes and frozen pizzas)

4. Possibly get cable TV(this, again, is something Chris sacrificed)

5. Get a massage from time to time

6. Spend money on coffee or yogurt or a $10 eyeshadow without feeling guilty

7. Wine

8. Use shower gel and not Ivory bar soap that I buy 4/$1.00

9. Musicals and museums and live music events

10. Keep the motorcycle, maybe...

Not that it's all about the money, but I am realizing that I am inhibited from doing alot. Plus, when there are weddings and birthdays and babies I realize that we have no wiggle room. And honestly, I want to be able to enjoy the city we live in. This summer I relied heavily on my free entertainment: running in the park, working out downstairs in the weight-room and soaking up rays on the sun-deck. Pretty lame, I admit.

Too Much Pressure

Last night I woke up with a headache. Or, my headache woke me up. About midnight. I felt like Mr. Potato-head, with that drawer in the back. I thought my head was just going to unhinge right there on my pillow, dumping out all the gray matter that makes up my brain, my life. Unlike the extra ears and eyes and noses for Mr. Potato-head, I need these parts in tact at all times; they are not extras. The pressure on my top vertebrae was going to pop my spine open like a zipper. The way the metal teeth on my jeans zipper readily release after too much pasta and wine. All that is stuffed inside just wants out, wants to breathe, is bursting out to touch the air. That was how much pressure I felt.

I got up and washed down three generic ibuprofen with some water. I unwrapped a Ricola to sooth my scratchy throat. Chris sat silently at the computer desk, his face illuminated by the glaring white electricity.

After I laid back down I continued to be restless. My arms getting tangled up with my torso- this is a new problem I have; one arm is continuously asleep. I slept with the cough drop in my mouth. I don't care if this is dangerous, I have done this since I was young. I hate cough-drops, but my throat was tender from too much changing-of-the-season. When I woke up, hours later, I spit it out. Disgusting? Whatever, it's what I do.

My shoulders remained tense and continuously crept up toward my earlobes, drawn by some magnetic force up, up, up. Like those really powerful magnets we got for Christmas one year, that my mom only let us play with from time to time. We had to keep them away from the TV, our Fisher Price tape recorder and our Swatch watches. The force so strong I don't even realize it. I'm rigid and stuck without any flexibility whatsoever. Unknowingly, never relaxing- shoulders to earlobes- even lying in bed, trying to sleep.

Suddenly, I'm having a problem sleeping with my limbs and knees. I'm drooling and I don't drool. My right arm doesn't wake up until four or five hours after I do. I dig my nails into my palms and my calf muscles tense up and refuse to lay flat on their designated spots, allowing my toes to point directly at the ceiling. Even my normal fetal position half-moon-curl on my left side is no longer comfy. Chris and I switched sides of the bed a couple nights ago. I read this is good for your back (or did my chiropractor suggest it once?), anyway, it hasn't helped yet.

I Did It Again.

There are a few things Chris repeatedly "gets on to me" about. Not that he get's mad at me, well, here they are:

1. Putting dishes in the dishwasher without "pre-washing." My mom didn't prewash. We relied 100% on that dishwasher to get all the spaghetti, hard cheese and mayonnaise off our dishes. Chris is a pre-washer.

2. Picking my cuticles. It's a really bad habit I have. I pick until I bleed.

3. Not using a coaster. Are you kidding me? Our coffee table is from IKEA and we put our feet on it, who cares about coasters. I am trying to abide by this rule more and more.

4. Moving , sorting, touching, or organizing his piles. Although I must say, I think I am doing a pretty good job at this one! I just leave his junk mail, scribbled phone numbers, and school papers all disarray. As long as they don't make it onto the kitchen table, or the computer desk....

5. Getting headaches. Not that this is my fault, he just would like me to monitor when/ where I get headaches and if it continues to be a problem- go to a doctor. Chris doesn't get headaches. I don't think he even knows what a headaches is. So, honestly, I try not to mention it when I have a headache. He gets all concerned and flustered. Poor guy...

6. Not taking my week of placebo birth-control pills each month. (Ah, who needs em?)

7. (And this my be the worst...) Cutting towards myself when using our knives. I am currently wearing two bandages on two different fingers; one from cutting bread on Sunday, and one from cutting a pear today.

8. Stretching. Ever. Before or after running, exercising or weightlifting. Which is sort of funny since he doesn't do ANY of the afore mentioned activities. But, I guess he wants to make sure I'm taking care of myself. As a matter of fact, here is Chris partaking in his after dinner snack. Yes, this is after a veggie burger and cheese covered tator-tots. A cake and margarita- straight from the blender.