It's my 29th birthday, and I am spending it in Washington DC with my family (good), where it's raining (better), and where I am not freaking out too much about turning 29 (best). I thought it would be hard, but it's turning out better than I thought. Maybe I'm just coming to terms with getting older, or maybe I'm just comfortably numb, but I'm okay with which ever it is.
Being back East helps--being in the humid, green climate (if not location) of my childhood, being with family. Both are familiar, and comforting, and I've felt more like myself than I have felt in a very long time. And I think that's the best birthday gift I could ever get.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Decisions, Decisions
Generally, I don't believe in love at first sight. But with Indiana, it's always been a little different.
Technically, it wasn't REALLY first sight. But we don't need to worry about that. From the second I crossed over the state line, back in 2004, I was hopelessly in love with it. I remember John the Saint and I stopped at a rest stop about twenty miles in. It was late in the afternoon, maybe around four or 5. I stood at the edge of the pavement, where it met up with a field. My back was to the moving truck and John and the car; I was facing the field and the tall, burnt-yellow grass. A warm wind was blowing, and it promised excitement.
Indiana? Exciting?
Later that night, after we arrived at Duncle's in Bloomington, after we had all gathered around the dinner table and gorged ourselves, after the plates were cleared, after the sun had set, I went out onto the screened porch and settled onto the porch swing. A late-evening storm was brewing, and silver lightening lit up the sky, the back yard, Aunt Jo's vegetable gardens, and the hay bales beyond her yard. Even the air felt different, after Florida--a little less humid, and a lot more electrified.
John the Saint joined me, and together we watched the storm roll in. And then, between flashes of lightning, there was something else lighting up the evening--tiny little gold lights, burning silently and bright for a second, and then disappearing just as quickly. An enormous smile spread over my face as I realized I was seeing fireflies for the first time since I had moved away from the Midwest, almost twenty years before. I glanced over at John, who smiled back, enjoying my simple bliss.
And just like that, I was hopelessly in love with Indiana. With the whole Midwest, really.
Now, as I am beginning to contemplate where to go next, my mind keeps drifting back to the Midwest. Should I try to go back? Am I only considering it because, after the disappointment and emotional desert that is California, it seems safe and comfortable and familiar? Or is it time for me to return? It's felt more right than any other place. Or should I leave that love in the past and move on to something else? Should I try to forget the fireflies, the haze settling on the landscape in a summer dusk, the iron-grey skies of an endless February, the shabby nobility of 100-year-old barns, long abandoned to decay in overgrown fields, the chilly autumn evenings?
I don't think I can forget it.
But I don't know if I should try to go back.
Technically, it wasn't REALLY first sight. But we don't need to worry about that. From the second I crossed over the state line, back in 2004, I was hopelessly in love with it. I remember John the Saint and I stopped at a rest stop about twenty miles in. It was late in the afternoon, maybe around four or 5. I stood at the edge of the pavement, where it met up with a field. My back was to the moving truck and John and the car; I was facing the field and the tall, burnt-yellow grass. A warm wind was blowing, and it promised excitement.
Indiana? Exciting?
Later that night, after we arrived at Duncle's in Bloomington, after we had all gathered around the dinner table and gorged ourselves, after the plates were cleared, after the sun had set, I went out onto the screened porch and settled onto the porch swing. A late-evening storm was brewing, and silver lightening lit up the sky, the back yard, Aunt Jo's vegetable gardens, and the hay bales beyond her yard. Even the air felt different, after Florida--a little less humid, and a lot more electrified.
John the Saint joined me, and together we watched the storm roll in. And then, between flashes of lightning, there was something else lighting up the evening--tiny little gold lights, burning silently and bright for a second, and then disappearing just as quickly. An enormous smile spread over my face as I realized I was seeing fireflies for the first time since I had moved away from the Midwest, almost twenty years before. I glanced over at John, who smiled back, enjoying my simple bliss.
And just like that, I was hopelessly in love with Indiana. With the whole Midwest, really.
Now, as I am beginning to contemplate where to go next, my mind keeps drifting back to the Midwest. Should I try to go back? Am I only considering it because, after the disappointment and emotional desert that is California, it seems safe and comfortable and familiar? Or is it time for me to return? It's felt more right than any other place. Or should I leave that love in the past and move on to something else? Should I try to forget the fireflies, the haze settling on the landscape in a summer dusk, the iron-grey skies of an endless February, the shabby nobility of 100-year-old barns, long abandoned to decay in overgrown fields, the chilly autumn evenings?
I don't think I can forget it.
But I don't know if I should try to go back.
Monday, May 4, 2009
In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning...
This never used to happen, but lately, it’s getting to be an almost regular occurrence. I awakened around 4 this morning, and could not go back to sleep. A full bladder may have been the culprit, but I suspect the real cause was a distubing dream in which I was a caregiver to an old lady and her 101 (not Dalmatian) cats. Fears of becoming my mother, much?
Anyway, any normal person would have used the litterbox, shaken off the dream, and re-commenced slumbering, but that would be a normal person. Not the Sassy Kitten, here. I’ve got about a billion things on my mind lately, so as soon as I awoke, all one billion of them slammed back into my awareness like an inconvenient tsunami on Boxing Day. And stupid me, I spent the next hour in bed, thinking about them, until I gave it up and rose to meet the day at 5 AM.
There are worse ways to go–I tend to roll out of bed 30 minutes before I need to be at work, and this barely gives me enough time to bathe, let alone prepare my responsible, professional (fraudulent) self. So having three and a half hours to get ready is an unexpected luxury–it gives me time to make my oatmeal. Clean. Write some emails. Blog about pointless minutiae. Spend time on the exercise bike. Fold laundry. Even lay out my work clothes. Not bad for a Monday morning!
But lord, I will be hating life by 4 PM today.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
I Guess At the End, You Start Thinking About the Beginning...
In another six weeks, I will be celebrating my third California birthday. Like any birthday, this is going to be–inevitably–a time of reflection for me. Uppermost in my reflections will be the knowledge that I had never intended to celebrate three California birthdays here; I had planned to be gone from this state after a year and a half.
And yet.
And yet, here I am. Three years older than the 26-year-old that drove in on the 10 on a hot, dusty day in mid-June, feeling no excitement, no joy, no anticipation, only relief to be at the end of my journey and a grim determination to get through it. Thank god I didn’t know, couldn’t know how long I would be here. Three years older, but not necessarily wiser. And here I am.
Part of growing up, growing older, is having the courage to admit when a thing–a situation, a relationship, a job–is no longer working. It’s having the courage to admit when it’s time to give it up as a bad show and walk away. And it’s having the good sense to know when it’s time. Kinda like the serenity prayer, like that. So I guess I’ve learned something in California–I’ve learned when it’s time to walk away.
Now I just need to learn how.
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