[So this is what you call Christmas?]

[Christmas Take I:]

Oh, the In-Between!

Its that time of year again—the lull between holidays. The Great Stretch of Anticipation: Christmas Eve to New Years Day.

Currently seated with Christmas Day firmly behind and New Years coming up quick(er than I’d like), it seems I’m engulfed in the calm between the storms.

A minor dose of Mary’s postpartum for all of mankind?? So much build up, so much anxiety—Will you beat the weather? Are your gifts enough? When in God’s name are you going to wrap them?!!—and what do you do when it’s over?

Sit.

Stare at the tree.

Wonder if the stressors were worth it.

Curl up with a good book.

Wait.

But without knowing what for…

Has it been a good holiday season?

Sure has.

Lots of newness already, for which I‘m incredibly grateful.

Has my time at home been refreshing?

Please…!

I have done nothing but eat, read, and sleep. Oh, and open presents. And play games. And build a snowman. And go snowshoeing.

So yeah, I’d say its been pretty great.

Still, there’s a grown-up air to this season’s celebrations (though, admittedly, you wouldn’t know it by simply glancing at that list of things we’ve done).

It’s an odd aura we’ve been surrounded by.

Its felt a bit like we’re all grasping, trying to find some nostalgic spirit wafting through the rafters, but it escapes us.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Have I reached the point where Christmas is no longer filled with the mystery and intrigue that it used to be? Is that what I’m feeling?

It’s part of it, at least.

I noticed the change when sitting through church.

Usually, we’d race home after church to open our presents. Santa would have come while we were away. We’d track his charcoal footprints across the living room floor. Even after that phase, when Santa’s writing started looking more than vaguely familiar, there was still some magic in the air.

Now the whole thing just seems to be lacking…

I truly don’t mean to be a Grinch.

I hope I haven’t been one. I really have had a good time this year. (I swear it!)

But I sense this is at least partially why people go out and create their own families around this age: to bring the spirit back to family Christmas. All it needs is some childlike imagination, some trust, some awe…

(The real deal, Christmas Day, 2009.)

[Christmas Take II:]

Or maybe the problem with Christmas this time around was that not all of us were there. Aunt Sandy was MIA…and I guess things were especially dull once Nick trekked off to his other celebratory dinner. With such a tiny family, we were out 2/3 of the group! It’s no wonder things felt a bit off.

When we had a delayed Christmas (post-snowstorm) today, the festivities were quite a bit more lively, filled with reminiscing, old family stories, and gleeful laughter. There were dance moves. (All I want for Christmas is a little… Ace of Base?!) There was heated political talk. (Those &*^@# insurance agencies.) There was a simple meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup. (Along with crackers that tasted like Playdoh (exp. Date: 2007).) There were tales from childhoods so distant from my own that I was swept up in the scenes my imagination sketched as they were told…

In the midst of these giggles over who got chased off by the neighbor more often, whose horse ripped down the clothesline, or which great aunt remained sharp-as-a-tack the longest…I had to sit back and admire the way that the lives of my mom, her sister, and their mother were so closely intertwined. I was envious of their farming lifestyle—tribulations as they broke beasts four times their size, terrors of jumping out of haylofts and realizing mid-plunge that they really couldn’t fly, hideouts in the outhouse. Such a different story than my own…

In today’s world, from a perspective occruing a few steps back, I feel very…

cookie-cutter.

Not to mention extremely uneducated in my family’s history. I have never searched for memories of relatives. I don’t know the names of my cousins‘ kids off-hand. I have no idea how many brothers and sisters my grandparents had. The details of people’s lives seem to fall through my cracks. I do not grip them the way I should. Not even those who I surround myself with day in and out. Not even those whom I treasure most.

Is it because I don’t take the time to ask those questions? Is it because I don’t listen when I hear? Is it because I am 23 going on 103 and have no memory of most moments…? Perhaps that is why I find journaling so satisfying. As though it is my own way of capturing the moments, simply so I can hear the story later, after the memories have become less crisp. I have found myself gripping so tightly to each and every hour lately… only to be unable to recall what I’ve filled the timeframe with shortly after. What good is existance if you cannot remember it? If you cannot tell the story?

In moments like these, I feel myself hoping for a God. I want someone to be able to appreciate the story I weave. And—in those especially embarrassing or ridiculous moments when no one is around to see—I want someone to join me in the laughter; in the appreciation of the beauty of impressing no one and being fully exposed and open to the ironies and beautiful failures befalling me.

Silly, how life is.

(Fake Family Christmas, Sunday, December 27, 2009.)

[ 3:30 – 3:30 ]

--Back Post: December 21 (Somehow.)--

How is it that one clarification in life can have such a drastic effect upon it?

One person at one juncture.

Another mere moments before.

Both play a roll in the brilliance of the other, but know nothing of one another.

We say hello to the latter; welcome into the soul, our stores of memory. Laugh until the neighbors wake, smile enough to chap our lips. One bottle of wine. 6 hours of music. 516 minutes (or so) of sharing.

Fall asleep seeing hints of you. Wake up to a lighthearted world.

(Mine, for the first time. Ownership of my expanse, my life within its realm.)

...

Only to say goodbye to the other. Off on a new adventure. The promise of tears to come. The ache of letting go. The between’s unsuredness. The beauty in the potential, the promise, the sway. The fear.

A life plan that ends only in patterned marks of question.

Then again, whose doesn't?

12 hours of sparkling oblivion:

Oblivious to the world. To the spiraling of the clock hands. To the sandman’s confused route, and the dreamcatcher’s boredom. You. Me. Here and now.

Tell me more…?

[I don’t journal enough when I’m happy.]

--Back Post: December 16--

Today is a good day.

It’s good because the sun is shining.

It’s good because I had a terrible class this morning with my future second-graders, yet don’t feel like a failure NOR do I regret signing on for this adventure.

It’s good because my apartment is all packed up, waiting to find a home on Duluth.

It’s good because it’s incredibly obvious that my parents are wonderful beings.

It’s good because the holidays are coming up, and even though I cannot afford presents for anyone, I don’t feel bah-humbugged or ashamed at all.

It’s good because I am alive, feeling positive.

It’s good because my week is chock full, yet promising, relaxing, even celebratory.

It’s good beacause I feel as though I’m in the midst of a re-coming-of-age, and right now I feel blessed because that’s true, rather than burdened.

Today is a nice change from my patterning lately.

I have been down, dreary, and downright annoying with my complaints and misgivings.

Is it the sun?

Is it the fact that I have something to look forward to?

Is it the sense of closure in my life?

New beginnings?

I haven’t a clue.

But I’m happy : )

[Dull. Mull. (Un)full.]

--Back Post: December 13--

Can I just take this moment to say the scariest few words I have ever uttered?

I am unhappy here.

In this place in my life.

I am unhappy.

Never in my existence do I think I have ever said that.

Sad, yes. Hurt, you bet. Bored, angry, frustrated… all of the above.

Simply unhappy?

…I’ve always found an outlet to distract.

One that fulfills... instead.

Or discovered something deeper.

This time, I feel unable to redirect my attentions. I do not have the energy to spend getting underneath my own surfaces—the ground has frozen harder than ever before.

I am directionless.

Plagued with the understanding that I am in a place in my life when I can choose to just let go and do…or can bide more time…and regret every second.

I don’t do well putting that sort of pressure on my every moment.

No person can thrive in that kind of environment.

Perhaps my reality is that I am actually obsessed with squeezing the life out of every day.

And in doing that, I am suffocating myself out of it.

Snuffing out life’s goodness because I’m too busy focusing on it.

„Space to be human“ is losing its meaning.

Its impact is becoming non-existant.

Is that what happens with all things cherished?

[Listen.]

Sounds to astound.

Tell.

Of my today, tomorrow, yesterday.

Beyond.

[Love in the time of (the) "cool" era.]

HEAR YE, HEAR YE...! It's time for me to soapbox the shit out of my love life.

Looking for love at this stage-- during this electronically-fortified and convenience-driven society-- has made my every attempt at it turn pathetic instantaneously.

Lickety-split.

Well, that...or I have somehow managed to do it all on my own.

(Ludicrous, I know.)

Truth be told, I am weary of the need for us to be endlessly connected and thus constantly reminded of a) your existences and b) your utter lack of interest in maintaining more than a millisecond-long relationship with any human being who passes your way. (Especially me.) I am weary of falling victim to my fingers habitually mousing their way over to your latest tweets. I am weary of noting moments in my life that remind me of you so I can text them to you, and, in a wonderfully abrupt and all-too-soon-forgotten turnabout, remind you of me. I am weary...because during these brief brushes with you, my cyber-crushes, my heart gets put on the line. I get attached to you so easily, yet to you I'm just another thumbnail in the "Followers" section of your oh-so-addicting, goddamned blog.

I miss the days when I was reminded of you because we grazed hands in the hallway, instead of because you're bookmarked on my favorites. (Gasp! Real human contact!! Who knew?) I miss the days when it took some time to get to know a person-- you couldn't just claim you've got it figured out by looking at a 140-word summary. I miss the days when a relationship had meat on its bones. It was involved enough to withstand a lack of communication for months at a time if need be, whereas nowadays most would throw a red flag if sentiment isn't reciprocated within five minutes of being "sent".

My truth is that I would probably embrace this html-formatted path toward love if I were getting more positive results from it. I happen to like the idea of being connected to others no matter how far away and always adore any opportunity to express my utter devotion to those who least expect it. I just think this focus on what/who is next/new sends potential relationships--friendships included-- to the executioner, whose mantra revolves around the age-old greener-grasses theory.

You know where it all started, though, don't you?!!

We grew up in an environment that encouraged this fact-paced, yes-or-no kind of love. Nurtured it like a fungus... On the playgrounds. At daycare. In our own backyards...!! (Look at all those PTA moms shoving their children into the back of their minivans, where they'll be safe from these elements. Too late, Mom. Too late...)

I mean, what else cold explain the incredible weight of that lone circle etched around the YES or NO options on the back of our just-passed-back subtraction worksheets? What else could explain the bipolar experience in the sandbox, where you'd get an unexpected peck on the lips from that little tyke in the Pooh Bear overalls, coupled with a follow-up handful of sand to the face, and--look--that brat is now in hysterics because they've decided you weren't what they thought you'd be.

I am very aware that this is a ridiculous argument.

Yet I am wracked with frustration and belligerent shock when I am rejected without a fair trial period. (Though time and again, I am the guilty party. I admit.)

In my victimized state, however, I am the ever-adamant protestor:

I protest the walls we build to protect ourselves. (Mine. Yours.)

I protest the excuses relied on to explain our reasons for not pursuing. (Mostly yours.)

I protest the importance of convenience to a relationship.

I wind up protesting the way society is run, the way people look past others without a second thought, the way my heart aches when you blow me off via text, FB, Twitter, snail mail, AND in person.

What I am really protesting is the fact that your rejection is not concrete, but implied, leaving me open to my own interpretations, along with my loneliness, and my inability to figure out a way to woo you.

In the end, I should not need to put forth endless amounts of energy to get your attention.

You should want mine.

[Sidenote: What a silly rant to have on an online blog. Oh, the hypocrisy of it all...!!]

[Maternal Instincts.]

My mother is brilliant.

She started a new job yesterday, after a path of stagnancy, promise, whirlwind destruction, and self-discovery.

You see, she spent decades with a construction company, in their financial and accounting sector.

Straight outta Compt…er…high school, she went into the business.

And there she stayed.

[Stagnancy.]

Until she decided she was in need of a change.

Off she went to St. Kate’s, backpack strapped on tight, lunchbox in hand, starry-eyed vision.

Was it in nursing that she began her college quest?

She ended up in sales and… something else. I think.

Watching her grace the stage was a moving moment.

[Promise.]

One that few daughters get.

I had the „Proud Mama“ feeling for my own…and it was superb.

Then she was recruited. Heavily.

She accepted a very fancy-schmance position.

This job required a commute to the Cities. (What?!!)

Where she worked in a skyscraper of sorts. (Double what?!!)

And went on business trips across the country. (Ok, I’m floored.)

Too bad this particular business was into selling themselves.

(Motivational sales. To bankers. The Boss Lady went on a book tour.)

Mother Dearest doesn’t buy into bullshit, though… unfortunate for them.

[Cue the whirlwind of destruction.]

So she quit.

(For her.)

Was begged to stay.

(For them.)

Stayed.

(For them.)

Then quit.

Was begged to stay.

Stayed.

Quit.

This time for real.

In fact, she hightailed it out of there—but not before managing to clear a severance package, that tycoon!

Then she took the summer off.

[Self-discovery.]

She deserved a break after that run-around, exploitation. And a long one, at that.

Everytime I’d check in, she‘d be off doing something that made my heart soar:

She was volunteering at the local art center.

Even had three of her batik pieces in the Members Only show.

And has honed her abilities since. (Who knew?!)

She was gardening.

(Blossoming.)

She was revamping old furniture.

(Constructing.)

She was visiting the horses.

(Reigniting.)

Even roadtripping.

(Exploring.)

Not to mention, she was regaining that social life that us kids had distracted her from for so long, I’m sure!

It was beautiful.

She was reinventing herself. Discovering who she really was. Starting from scratch.

Most importantly, she was taking the time to be herself.

She had slowed to a pace where the finer pleasures revolve around that which the rest of us so often forget: feeling.

How traumatic when life becomes a series of post-it noted to-do’s.

How easily we all fall into such a pace.

Now, she is tiptoeing her way back into the working world, but is doing so in a very enlightened way.

She has taken a job (for half the pay of her schmancy one) at a camp.

I watch her, engulfed in yet another „Proud Mama“ moment.

I see her nervously prepare for Day One. And Two. Soon Three.

I help her with her post-first-day-in-the-office-questions.

I hear her guard herself, afraid that this experience might emulate her last.

But I know that she’s a different woman than she was last time.

She is bold.

She is brave.

She is newly… her.

And I am convinced that she will prevail, doing whatever she deems worthy.

I am left feeling thankful.

Grateful for the perfect example of what life’s focus ought to be on…

Even more so, appreciative of the fact that she has gifted me with her genes.

The cold-hearted business world, which is ever-looming and oh so threatening, loses its danger in her shadow.

My mother:

Brilliant.

[Deep breaths.]

Tonight I need to leave myself alone and let others be.

[Telling Time (Off).]

"

There was no time yesterday to write of my best birthday present. Anne Woodson was to have come for lunch today, the only "free day" I shall have for some time to come. When I got back from Cambridge on Wednesday I walked into a house full of surprises...and a note from Anne to say that she was giving me a day's time...This is the day that she has given me and I have two poems simmering, so I had better get to work.

"

*

My last day of student teaching was on Friday.

I am now -- officially -- a real person.

I didn't quite know how I'd react to that fact, even though I've had a lot of practice faking it since I "graduated" last May. Two days in, all I know is that I am ecstatic to be moving on, a tinge sad about the college chapter of life being completed, and am especially excited about the potential that December holds for me. It's a month of timeless freedom. My job isn't slated to begin until January, so I am left to simply do whatever I feel I need to do to get by until then. I've got a few odd jobs lined up, a project that will add some purpose to my existence, and days upon days that I can spend however I so choose. (Granted, the empty wallet will have quite the impact on my options, but entertaining myself creatively is my favorite past time.)

This new reality of empty calendar pages full of promise makes my life feel like it is, in fact, my life.

The best part thus far is that I am not rushing through life. I am able to look past my own immediate plans and stressors and have plenty of flexible time to spare for people. It feels good. Fulfilling. I can breathe.

Life is not meant to be lived the way we've been trained to live it. Most days simply blur together and by the end of any given week, I remember little and learn even less. To have time to process things, time to venture into the core of existence and coexistence, time to take in the snowflakes and the sunshine...

I'm sure it will be a far-from-perfect December. Yet any moment when I have the time to feel-- whether that's an uplifting feeling or otherwise-- I am learning to be entirely grateful. So many of my days I've wasted building walls to keep feeling out. I wonder just how many of us go without feeling day after day. (I never want to know the answer, but I wonder, nonetheless...)

"

Sometimes I wonder whether what is often wrong with intimate human relations is not recognizing [the necessity of suffering]. We fear disturbance, change, fear to bring to light and to talk about what is painful. Suffering often feels like failure, but it is actually the door to growth. And growth does not cease to be painful at any age.

"

*

*excerpts from May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude

[Inordinate.]

I rediscovered this when I was reading through one of my journals today:

God as a cliche.

This is what activates my off-switch.

God is in the flush of my cheeks,

the spinach in my teeth.

In the passion behind a cuss,

in the rock against the windshield.

God is in the numbness of my toes.

The funny pages.

In the early morning snowstorm,

in the late night insomnia.

God is in my anxiety over disappointing you.

The drunk driver.

In the failed president's shame,

in the new hope's pressure.

God is in the stain on your tee,

the hiccups of drunkenness.

In the potholes of life,

in the rooftop gardens.

God is in false hopes.

The bad haircut.

In the sale prices,

in the budget cuts.

God is in that mousy mustache.

The fumes of the coal plant.

In the whites of your eyes,

in the yellowing of the pages.

God is in the clumsiness of my hands,

the insensitivity of your comment.

In the voided check,

in the swelling applause.

[Weathering it all.]

It amazes me just how much the sunshine (or lack thereof) affects my life.

(Mental Note: Live somewhere with a balance. Lots of sunshine, yet enough time without, in order to appreciate its brilliance.)

On days when I awaken to beams of light in my eyes, my outlook is thoroughly positive. I find myself in constant search for a way to live each moment of sunlight to the fullest. Shouldn’t I live that way every day?!

(Obviously.)

I’m discovering that I’m at a time in my life when I have to weather a lot of unknowns. A sunny outlook is helpful.

At the moment, I am waiting to hear about whether or not I got the long-term sub position at Garfield Elementary. That yes/no will have an incredible effect on my life’s course for the next few months. I will go from having the hazy plan of moving home for a few weeks to streamline all the things I carry, as well as to squeeze in all kinds of medical appointments before my insurance runs out, to quickly having to figure out a place to live until March…among other things. Sounds overwhelming. But nice, in a way…

Yet it’s hard to ignore this muttering in the back of my mind warning me against staying put. I have officially outgrown the Sioux Falls lifestyle and, despite a similar voice that loves the comfort that comes with this place, I think I’m ready to admit that I want out. I am keenly aware of my yearning for anything, so long as it’s “other”. I am tired of the routine. I am tired of the avoidance of the very places I am supposed to feel most at home. I am tired of longing for something different and doing nothing about it. I need a change in scenery. Need to venture out.

Soon.

But, I suppose if I do get this job, venturing out on my own could mean simply getting a studio apartment in the city and making it my own. OH, how badly I crave privacy….the feeling of being safe in my own home. Not that my apartment has been a threatening place to live per se—more so that I worry about getting yelled at by my mouthy and judgmental soon-to-be-lawyer roommate day in and day out. I have reverted to making a mad dash to my room and slamming the door shut as soon as I step into “our” space. My room is the only place that is truly mine. It is my safe haven, free of a critical eye.

Imagine if my entire apartment could feel that way…!

I could spend time with whomever I desire. I could play my music where ever I’d like, as loud as I’d like. I could not clean the bathroom sink until I felt it needed it. (Which would probably be more often than I do now because it’d be my own space…and because I have a strange need to irk my roommate in the most passive-aggressive ways possible…?!) I’d treat it well.

Ugh.

I just need have the space to be able to live the life that I long to lead. I love my friends here—I’d miss them (desperately) if I decided to venture elsewhere. But, at the same time, I think I have some growing up to do…seperately. I know it would be good for my soul to try and decipher how I see and feel about things on my own. Make up my own mind. Not get stuck in the drama between friends and their lovers. [Never my own…:) ] To be free of my mistakes and miscues… it’d be heavenly—like going off to college again. My reputation needn’t follow. I would get to choose who I wanted to be in the moment.

I’d like that.

Not that my reputation is bad. It’s just that it would be better left untouched from here on out. Leave the Bailey of Sioux Falls here. Create a newer version of myself. One that’s even more true to life. Worldly. Adventurous. In touch with all that I care about—the dirt, the sun, everything in between.

Newness. Wholeness.

I long for it all.