timely endings.

I am sitting in the light of the evening, given by the twinkle lights above me, at my favorite nighttime coffee spot. I remember being here, not long before I went to Korea. I was talking to a friend and an acquaintance, and the latter of the two had just hinted at the fact that I was a "type A" personality. I was appalled. I have had such negative connotations in my head about...people...like that. My immediate reaction was defensive, and then I looked at my friend to back me up..."please correct him", I thought. Please defend me against just unjust and illogical accusations! He did not. 

The acquaintance just made his way through the door, and with him the memory of that conversation. And now, this evening, in the company of myself, I no longer care about what "type" of personality others say I have.

It's really busy here. In an unappealing way. My defense is headphones. Explosions in the Sky is currently drowning out the sound of college kids on Christmas break explaining in great detail to their missed friends exactly why they chose their major and the difficult class load they had to endure throughout the fall semester. That way of life seems so far off to me now. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I did, in fact, live it. Though I never found joy in explaining my major, as it was a default decision, and could be, in some schools of thought, labeled as a mistake...as I really just want to be a baker that listens to people and writes about the stuff she learns. That is something I am excited to tell people. But how would I have known that at the age of nineteen, when advisors and professors were warning me that it was necessary for me to choose something if I wanted to graduate? I wanted to graduate. That was never the question. I just didn't know what I wanted to do. 

I spent my first night of stay in the house of my great-grandmother last night, and as I walked to the bathroom down the hall to wash my face, I envisioned my now eighty-something year old  grandfather running through that same hall as a toddler, looking for a great place to hide during a game of hide-and-seek. I lathered my hands to wash the make-up off of my face, feeling thankful. My night of sleep was the most restful that I have had in a really long time.

I will spend my last day of work at the store of overpriced kitchenware tomorrow. It is a short shift, and I will be counting the minutes, as I have been counting the days since the very first one. I hadn't imagined I would hate it as much as I have, and I had no idea I could hate it as much as I do. It's funny trying to explain to people that don't get it just why I hate it so much...why working at such a beautiful store could be so demoralizing. Lessons have been learned, however, and as I walk out of the beautiful store tomorrow, somewhere around five-o-one in the evening, I will be feeling a celebratory sort of thankful. 

And I will ring in the new year with friends, and the feeling that my days make up my life, and how I spend them matters, and thankful that I don't have to spend any more of them, ever, selling stuff to people so that they can continue to amass things upon things, upon things. 

numerical disorder.

Firstly, my gingerbread house won the gingerbread house contest. I didn't craft it with that intention. The act of making it made me giddy. Squeals and shrieks were coming from my mouth for three days at the kitchen table of a friend. But a $25 gift card to McNellie's am I the owner of, and happy about that am I. 

Secondly, I am grateful for the kindness of others, and grateful that just because I don't have a house of my own doesn't mean I am living on the streets of this likable city. 

I think I almost had an anxiety attack yesterday morning. Heart racing. Tears coming. Overwhelmed and worried and the feeling like the concrete I was standing on was spinning very, um, circularly. What a nice word. Circularly. 

What is the lesson to be learned? I haven't a clue. But I love being in challenging situations, and getting through them, and realizing my limits were even further out than I had thought. I am also realizing the necessary parts of life, through this houseless journey I am on. I was thankful for the spring-like weather on Christmas that set the stage for a really timely run. I know I should always have my baking ingredients handy, and not in a box in storage with games and books and summer clothes. The feel of something warm in my hand, whether it be coffee or tea or orange rinds steeping in water brings the comfort needed after a near panic attack. And I am thankful that Aimi met Isaiah, and that he wanted her to meet his family, which meant she would leave her house for the six days surrounding the birth of baby Jesus, which meant I would have a pretend  cozy little house all to myself. 

And lastly, not thirdly or fourthly, as those were sandwiched somewhere in the above paragraph: Conventional. Following accepted customs and proprieties. Conforming with accepted standards. Ordinary. Commonplace. Does anyone really like the way that sounds? I do not seek to be unconventional. I don't have it on a list of things to do. As I don't really make lists of things to do. But the thought of being conventional makes me sad, and disappointed, and less hopeful in general. 

It's a really spectacular day. 

an edible house.

If only success was measured in ones' ability to create a gingerbread house from scratch. 

If only I were a miniature person. I would have a tasty place to live. 

beauty.

The weather. It's the default topic of discussion. "Did you hear that storm last night? Man, the lightening shook my house." "It sure is cold out there." "How much hotter do you think it can get?" "It's so windy outside I nearly got blown over! Whew!" And this is the nature of life. It's something we can all relate to. It's something we are all exposed to, if we leave the house. 

Right now, here, it's extremely cold outside. Scarves are no longer worn simply for appearances. They are necessary. The ice patches on the roads tempt my tires to spin. I am thankful when they resist. It's perpetually gray outside. White stands out against the dark of the day. 

I went outside the coffee shop where I work yesterday to take out the trash. The dumpster is in the alley, between two incredibly large buildings. They are old, with beautiful old windows and beautiful old doors, and contrasting cumbersome pipes coming out of their sides, letting me know someone somewhere on the inside is a bit warmer.  The look of the smoke or moisture or whatever it was coming out of the pipe against the starkness of the building and the day was really just breathtaking. I threw the waste into the dumpster with that thought, which accompanied a little bit of a chill. I walked back into work, glancing up at the white ice draping the steps across the street, with the thought that really, it was just an incredibly beautiful day. 

So much of life is how we interpret it. I have to be careful to not let others interpret it for me. 

a home.

I am so capable of feeling frazzled. And I rarely give myself grace to let that be okay. Together I must feel. Stress-ed not am I. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding me. Balanced I must be. Everything is under control. I'm fine. I AM fine. I AM FINE I SAID!

Tada. Enter nervous breakdown. Or maybe not quite nervous breakdown, in the clinical sense. But, rather, semi-tragic emotional breakdown in the kitchen on the floor...where all the bad voices come out and trump reason and truth and logic-al-ish thinking.

Yawn. 

I moved out of my house last weekend. Or, rather, on Thanksgiving Day. The following day I worked, as I do have a job in retail, and it was Black Friday. All of my belongings that aren't absolutely necessary are in boxes in a storage unit whose manager deducted fifty dollars from my checking account just two days ago. And then I worked again, twice. And then I cleaned my old house that's no longer mine, and moved some more. And then I worked at the job in retail that I also happen to abhor. And then I came dangerously close to one of those emotional breakdowns I mentioned before. Thank God for uninterrupted mornings, and for this cup of orange ginger tea I sit here, sipping. 

I had one of these disastrous jobs last year during this very same time of year. Good things came from it, but the job itself I had little but feelings of disdain for. I told myself I felt that way because of the amount of hours I was working. "Too much!", I said to myself. Must take a day off. The result? Never work on Sundays. Ever. So here I find myself, with two jobs, one in retail. I have Sundays off, and am rarely ever required to work more than forty hours a week, and guess what? I still hate it. I hate selling things to people, especially expensive things that are, in my humble opinion, often (tough not always) a waste of one's money. 

The night I drove home for the last time, I cried. They were deep, gut wrenching tears. I cried because of what I was saying good-bye to. I am not usually extremely nostalgic when it comes to things. Just ask my roommate Tonia, who watched me discard a good portion of my belongings during the move out process. But the house on Evanston was more than a belonging to me. It represented a choice to step out of expectation and obligation and create the kind of life I had been wanting for some time, full of people and good food and reading corners and porches good for sitting. And that choice to live in that lovely old house made room in my head for other choices...important...inside altering...life shifting...difficult and seemingly selfish-though-not-quite-so choices. The house was the setting for the beginning of many inside altering...life shifting friendships. The kitchen the creative space for memorable meals and brownies, brownies, brownies. While I was crying, the song "Welcome Home"...(I think by Radical Face) played as my evening's soundtrack. It was a happen to, not a meant to. 

And. 

I remembered this: That I feel most at home with the people I care about...in the presence of accepting company...people that get what's great about the other people they are around. And so I cried a little more, those gutteral happy tears. I said good-bye to the house on Evanston...because...though I will always relate to that house this year of change, the beginnings of rich friendships, and many batches of brownies, the goodness inside of that goodness does not reside in the houses' walls.

With that, good night. I will be sleeping on a brown leather couch in a a high ceilinged, light green walled living room in the house of a dear friend. 

currency.

I am sitting here at a coffee shop, with my ear buds playing the music I want to listen to, while the beat fights with the live band playing in the corner. I am out of their view, so I don't think I am being blatantly rude. But. But. I don't really care anyway. 

In a moment of weakness, I removed the ear bud to fetch some honey for my tea steamer, and I overheard barista #1 say to barista #2 that "everyone has their own definition of successful". So true. Earbud is back in, and I just turned the music up a little louder. 

This is the question I ask you, consumers, friends, siblings, employees, carriers of mortgages and car loans and mothers of children. What is success? And when are you settling? Settling. I hate that word. 

The question is raised in every kind of social circle in every kind of city everywhere in the world. I started working at William Sonoma about a month ago, and my coworkers represent all sectors of society, all kinds of backgrounds, and places in life. Some retired attorneys, owners of small businesses and once-full-time-moms that have watched all of their children leave their immediate care. One of the first questions I am usually asked, regardless of the age or sex or personality of the employee, is what I do other than sell over-priced-well-made-home-gadgets to people. In other words, "What is my real job?" Um, well, I...uh...I work at a coffee shop down town. "Oh, really?", they usually say, and I never know what that really means. When I told the retired attorney last Saturday that I didn't work a forty hour a week job, her response was, "Oh, so you just play!" Yes, that's it. Exactly. I find childlike enjoyment from scrubbing left-over soggy food from the bottom of an industrial size sink. And it's a good thing I don't have a real job. Fake jobs are so much more conducive to play. Never mind the fact that I really had to get up at five in the morning to make someone a cup of coffee that added a mild piece of joy to the beginning of their possibly otherwise mundane and excruciatingly painful day. 

I haven't an answer, exclusively, for this question. Settling. I am leaning more towards the idea that your definition of "settling" has something to do with your value system, the things in life that are most important to you. And so the question shifts from being about a word that I hate...settling...to a phrase that I love...what do I value?

This is what I am asking myself. 

For a look at my first attempt at making bagels, check out my food blog. I even posted pictures!!! mmmmmmm. 

knee pain.

I did the Tulsa Run a little over a week ago. I didn't "train", per say, but I had been running descent distances for a few months, so it didn't seem like a big deal. I think, also, that my body has the capacity to run long distances, so it's not that impressive of a feat. It wasn't incredibly difficult, as I actually thoroughly enjoy running, and a good portion of the time I was sincerely smiling. However, at about mile six or so, the knee on my right leg began to hurt. This has never happened. I sort of ignored it, thinking the pain would work itself out, and was able detach my mind from the pain, mostly, for the rest of the run. I don't think you could have convinced me to stop or not finish, so the pain that has persisted was an inevitable end, I presume. 

On Saturday evening in Florida, I decided that the best way to begin my Sunday would be with a run on the beach. I talked to Kim, a massage therapist and she told me what was likely the cause, and what to do about it in the future. And the sand, I reasoned, would not be as hard on my joints! What a brilliant way to begin my day, I thought. So I rolled out of bed early that morning, passed my brother snoozing on the couch, packed myself and my running paraphernalia into his white pick-up truck, and headed east toward the waves. I did my stretch thing, set my I-Pod to track the distance that was before me, and went for it. It was so easy to get in the groove because of what I was surrounded by, the sun rising through the clouds, and the waves to my right crashing, chasing my ankles, threatening to wash over my tennis shoes. Never mind the fact that the pain in my knee was threatening to bring tears to my eyes.  

I was sad. I stopped. I took my shoes to the car, and returned to the sand shoeless, for an incredible Sunday morning walk. I jumped over the foam that the waves created, and (daringly) ran a bit each time the tunes in my ear got a little hoppy. I stood facing the clouds, with my hands in the air. I strolled when I wanted to feel the water wash over my feet, and stood completely still when I wanted to feel those same feet sink into the sand. None of these things would I have been able to do had I been, um, run run running. 

Last night I woke up at three thirty in the morning. Part of the problem was the crazy time change thing and the fact that I experienced it in a time zone I was already foreign to. But the other part, I think, had to do with the stillness I have been lacking. It had to do with the little amount of effort I have been putting into finding time to be silent and present. This time was something I had in abundance this summer and something that's pretty invaluable to my well being.  It's found at moments when I am running, but since I had been banned from that task for an entire week, I was beginning to feel the repercussions, and my soul was feeling all clogged and dysfunctional. I was craving shit that I didn't need, and listening to those voices of insecurity that rare their head when I, somehow, forget the truth about life, and ignore the goodness around me. 

 

I was able to regain slumber, but knew when I woke, that I would need to do something about the clogs before it got even more messy. So I went for a walk. Walks seems to be some kind of natural therapy for me that get thrown to the wayside when I must choose between them and a run. But this time I didn't have a choice. And this is what I think is utterly fantastic. 

I don't care it you are spiritual or believe in God or Allah or Mother Nature, but sometimes something that exists in one or all of those things, something in the universe, has a way of bringing us back to what it is we need. On Sunday, I didn't know I needed a walk, but I didn't have a choice. And those barefoot steps on the beach were so much more fulfilling than the high I was looking to gain from my run. The pain in my knee has kept me from hurrying, from going fast, from rushing to get it over with, and brought me back to the slower pace that my entire being has been in need of. 

The sky this morning was gray, and so I went on my walk to the tune of David, last name Gray. And you know what? Due to the slower pace of things, I was was able to stop and look up and take in the sky that came through the incredible orange leaves in the oak and the yellow and green leaves adorning the maple, a reminder of the things I notice when I slow down and breathe. I found a way to walk into a bright yellow fire hydrant, a reminder of what happens when I am not paying attention to my surroundings. I currently sit here typing, my knee is currently hurting, and there is a part of me that's actually a bit thankful for that reality. 

a frequent theme.

A few calendar days ago on a cool dark evening, I was driving down Lewis around eleventh street, making my way home. I was listening to something melodic with the windows down, wishing I was walking. I had one of those longing feelings in my gut, wishing that my arms were swinging freely from side to side, that my eyes were free to roam from wherever to wherever else, and that my legs and my feet and the feeling of motion in my bones were the things I was relying on to get me home.

I guess I could have pulled the car over and parked it, but that would have been entirely impractical and quite dangerous, so I continued to give gas to the pedal, braking when necessary, eventually putting Fiona in park at the rose colored house, and turning the key towards me, cutting the power.

I arrived in Florida yesterday, after nearly missing my flight, after clearly reading the departure time on my itinerary completely wrong. It’s such a strange feeling, when your confident you have done something really right and responsible, like arrive for your flight two hours early, when the opposite is what’s true, and the people in crisp professional uniforms checking you in look at you with those judging eyes that say man, she must be quite irresponsible and unreliable as a human being, daughter and friend. Ok, maybe not judgements quite that harsh, but they did do the - I am not quite going to completely look her in the eyes thing - because if they did, it could be construed as condoning my behavior. They gave me the, “they won’t hold the plane for you, but if you hurry you might be able to make it,” speech, and I took off to ask the people in line at security if I could cut in front of them, as I was about to miss my flight. They stepped to the side, judging eyes in check. “It’s not what it looks like,” I wanted to yell! I just read the time wrong! I thought I was getting here early! But there was no time for that.

I spent a few golden hours with my nephew, throwing the beach ball on top of the garage, and waiting to see if he could catch it, rolling around in the grass, and successfully making a batch of delicious imaginary pumpkin cup cakes that he ended up stuffing himself with (I think he ate seven).

When I arrived back at the apartment, I talked to my mom about all of her efforts to rent me a car while I am here. I have a very considerate mother...But it was turning into a hassle, with the insurance and the price and the picking up and the dropping off, and so I stopped. I began to think about my summer and the fact that I didn’t have a car, and I started to wonder where this thought that I needed one came into play. I called her back and said sorry but never mind. I just don’t want to begin to get into habits of necessity for things I know aren’t, just because they are accepted in the place that I am. This is not a tirade against rental cars. It’s a really fantastic way to get around. It was just the realization for me that this time, I didn’t need one. And if I had gotten one, I would have used it to drive down the street to the coffee shop, instead of walking there...

Which is what I did. I walked. I have become fond of not actually doing my hair, so much so that at home, I have resented the cold mornings that keep me from being able to walk outside with a wet head. So I packed my ipod and my book and my computer in my bag, thankful for the temperate climate I had traveled to. I took the majority of my steps on the sidewalk that led to the light, where I crossed the intersection that took me to the corner where the coffee shop sat, melodic tunes in check. I was breathing in each step, the comfortability of the sunshine and the breeze and the ground beneath my feet. I realized that I didn’t have to be in a foreign country to attain that feeling I had previously been longing for, and I fully, wholeheartedly and completely enjoyed each and every moment of the walk I had been waiting to take.

old-ness.

I have mentioned here before my appreciation for the process...of...things. I will not go in to great detail there again. 

That to say, for me, it has always applied to aging as well. 

I have a bag from Korea that says, "Life is Journey."

I love this bag for many reasons. I love that it came from a place I grew, through a process, to love. It was purchased on a wonderful day at a wonderful bookstore while in the company a wonderful friend. But the saying itself, I adore. It's indicative of the Korean culture, and blatantly declares a phrase that tells the truth, and tells it in a way that depicts the beautiful absurdity of life...That a few months out the summer of my twenty-fifth year, I found myself in an Asian country teaching English to lovely Korean children, eating things with tentacles, and getting lost on buses with non-English speaking families. It tells this because whomever made the bag left out the article. Life is "a" journey. Each time I read the phrase, I am reminded of the randomness of my experiences, due to the mistaken use of the English language by my Korean friends. 

And I believe it. Life is journey, which is why I so much appreciate the process of aging. It tells everyone you come in contact with that you have lived through more years, and hopefully...if you have done things right, have more stories to tell. 

I was invited to a "girls night" last week by a spunky and sincere friend that I came to know by making her americano most mornings at Starbucks. (Side note: She once asked me if I was Buddist. I laughed that noticeable, out loud laugh.) The gathering was at her house, and its mission was to celebrate being a woman, with other amazing women. I was stoked to get the invitation, and I was both intrigued and excited to see what the evening would bring. I was not disappointed, and it turned out to be even more wonderful that I had anticipated. But something she said, toward the close of the evening, surprised me. She said she was afraid they would be too old for us...

Absolutely not, I thought. I have much to learn, much wisdom to glean, and also, much to relate to, too (regardless of age!).

I found myself in a room of sisters, and siblings, relating to the stories of childhood, and brotherly torture. I listened to tales of teaching and how the scientific minds have trouble thinking artistically, Thanksgiving dish disasters involving apple cider vinegar and green beens, life-long dreams, and sincere disappointments. I did not feel too young or too fat or too skinny or too anything, I think. I felt grateful to be in a room full of women that weren't about pointing out our differences or pegging our insecurities, but just the opposite. I was thankful to be in a room full of women that had lived, had aged, and that were willing to share aspect of this truth about life with me. 

I received an email from my mom last week. She does that a lot. I have decided that she communicates best via web-based articles. Anytime I have a question, concern, problem? She sends me an article that someone else wrote addressing the issues I hold in question. She wants to share with my valuable financial advice? Internet article. Share with me how she feels about me as a daughter? Yep. The article was about the election, and the fact that the mom and the daughter disagreed as to who would make the next best president of the United States of America...It was from MSNBC, and an excerpt is below:

As for moms, when there’s no understanding their daughter’s political views, it's best to remember that raising an independent woman who thinks for herself is a sign of successful parenting, Kaslow says. Granados admits that she strayed from her own parents’ political views as a teenager. Now she’s sandwiched between her mother and her daughter, two Democrats, and she’s proud of her daughter for being so involved in local campaign efforts and for being so excited.

"We've grown really close this year, and it was because we need each other, we respect each other, even though we disagree," says Granados. "My love for her has nothing to do with our differences; we're family and we're always going to be family."

Granados sighs. "Even if she's in Obama gear head to toe."

My mom went on to point out that what she wanted to say wasn't specifically about our political differences, as they aren't that vast, but it was rather about how thankful she is that she and my father raised an independent daughter. I finished the email, cried, and then I started writing this. Because to me, it all goes back to the journey, and the process of aging. She would not have been able to say that to me sincerely a few years ago. Years pass and we make decisions that shape us into, hopefully, a more true version of ourselves. "Life is Journey", and I am getting older, and consequently, becoming a more independent woman...and in the process, growing closer to the woman that gave me life. 

This will make a daughter cry. It will also make me more appreciative (than ever) of the process of aging. 

the very beginnings.

I have not liked this week. I wasn't ready, in my head, for what awaited me. More early mornings than I am used to, less sleep, and less time to do the things I am accustomed to doing during those previous weeks of my life when I had more sleep and more time. 

Had I not been ushered into it by such a life giving weekend, I may have fared even worse...like a blind chicken being thrown into a pack of starving dogs. I don't really know where that came from. 

I have been coveting this time I find myself in since Monday. My work schedule informed me that I did not have to be at work until ten (instead of the normal six am), and I knew I would need these extra morning hours, by myself, to process the brunt of my week...I knew I would drive in my car to get to a table at my new favorite coffee spot in Tulsa, where the sun is currently shining on me through the ten feet tall paneless windows and a cup of Costa Rican coffee sits at my right, reminding me of the occasional bouts of warming comfort it will continue to afford me, in between types and pauses in thought. 

And so now, I will tell you a story, the source of the comfort and thankfulness that brought me into Monday. I tell it because one, she is worth writing about, and two, it's a really beautiful story, and each time I tell it, with excitement and sincerity, no one seems to quite grasp whatever it is that I am trying to get out. And so since I think that usually, I express myself better through written word, maybe I can get out what I have been failing to speak...

I think, too, that this will be an ongoing story. To sit and write it all would take many hours in a row. And so my blog will get the bits and pieces, the rough draft paragraphs, that will eventually become a whole. 

Beaulah Edith Harrell, my great-grandmother. 

We cannot control what we are born into. I think often about how what we are born into changes us, and how much different we would be had our situation been different. The circumstances of her childhood helped craft her into a fighter, though I suspect she had some natural fight in her from birth, before we are thrown into the world where we must consciously take care of ourselves. 

Her life began before our state was a state, when it was still Indian Territory. She was orphaned as a little girl, and raised on a farm in the country by "various stepsisters"...

The amazing thing here: What gives people the courage to step out of their circumstances, the life that they were born into, and make a new life for themselves in a foreign place all alone with nothing really going for them?

She moved to Tulsa as a teen, alone, and found a job as a nanny. Through this family, she met Augustus Clarence, a man whom I never met but genuinely owe everything to. This man, my great-grandfather, somehow - captured the heart of this young woman. I suspect he was attracted to her self-sufficiency, and also, obviously, her beauty. And it is this self-sufficiency, this spunk, this strength, that kept her full of life for over a hundred years, that enabled her to raise a healthy and beautiful family with nothing material, and that compels me, her great-granddaughter, someone that never knew her in her prime, to sit down and try, try, try to capture just a portion of the essence of her story.

choosing and picking.

I stir my brownies with a spoon. 

I knead my bread with my hands. 

I built the shelf in my room, instead of buying one. 

I left the world of mass produced convenience coffee for the world of hand tamping and attentive steaming. 

I cut my butter into my flour mixture with a pastry cutter, no food processor around. 

My favorite pair of earrings were assembled with my hands. 

The most enjoyable part of my collegiate endeavor, in relation to my major, was staining the rectangular pieces of wood that would display the digital designs I spent most hours of my day clicking at. I am currently neglecting my major, the source of all that clicking. 

The part of Korea that I long for most? My long walks home, in which I would be passed a few times over by bus three, the one that could have easily and cheaply taken me home. 

I like knowing the why, the backstory, the because, so that I can be more present.

I enjoy the experience, the process, and don't usually cling to an easier, more convenient way to do things. 

I was asked to bring guacamole to a friends' house for dinner a few nights ago, an hour before the dinner was to begin. I thoroughly enjoy making homemade guacamole. I love mashing the avocados, chopping the cilantro. It brings me great joy to dice the tomatoes into just the right squareness...the squeezing of the lime, the tears from the onion. Since it was an impromptu invitation, and therefore an impromptu request, I had little time to prepare. I went to the grocery store, found the isle with the pre-made stuff they try to pass off as guacamole that includes both avocados and monosodium glutamate, and then I just stood there and stared. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't buy it. I couldn't bring it with me, while completely neglecting the produce section, and then expect to sleep well that night. I found some already mashed avocados for too much money, bought a few fresh myself...some cilantro and tomato, and made my way out to the car. When I arrived at my destination, I borrowed a knife and a fork, and threw it together in a tupperware bowl. My heart felt settled. 

So why, I ask myself, a lover of the process of things, do I try at every possible turn, to distract myself from facing the intangible difficulties?  Why do I want to flee when I think about how I might be wasting my potential? Why am I tempted to work myself to death when I think about the possibility of never attaining meaningful things I truly desire? Why is the solution of escaping the general not-quite-enough moments of life moving to another state? Why do I throw my physical and mental capacities into the scrubbing out of the bathtub on an evening alone at home, in hopes that the bleach I am using on the white ceramic surface will also dissolve away the rock of disappointment that is currently resting in my gut?

These are the questions I am asking myself today, on the sweater worthy, cool and rainy autumn day I have been waiting for. Upon walking into the door of a local coffee establishment in search of a Costa Rican cup of coffee this morning, I was greeted by a beautiful little baby girl, being held gently and attentively by her mother. I sat sipping my cup at a table, looking dazedly out the window, and viewed a wife affectionately grab the butt of her husband as he hugged her, simultaneously unlocking and opening her door. I left the establishment to meet my mother at the house of my one-hundred and three year old great-grandmother, who is currently feeling the physical pain of her long life ending, breathing deeply while the vital organs of her body struggle, with family around and a nurse too, nestled in a hospital bed, in the bedroom of the house that she has lived in for the past fifty years...The house where she loved her husband, who remained the love of her life long after he was gone...Where she raised five kids with little money, but lots of love and humor and wisdom. 

I don't know the answers. I am just gonna try to be present in the process, even when the process involves pain. 

a drive.

Today is one of those gray muggy days that doesn't belong in October. Maybe May. Or the end of June. But it's just a tease when I am here, nearly a month into autumn, waiting for the change. 

At work today, I was in the opposite mood to help people. Kind of ironic, since that's a good portion of my job. But I didn't have it in me. I was looking at people with eyes of something close to disdain as they made their way to the counter. My mind got easily lost in the building of a turkey and swiss panini. The dishes received my full attention, and then some. But people. People were a pain. 

I went on a road trip this past weekend to visit old friends. The trip itself was lovely. Driving there was a bit of a drag, as I left on little sleep and a little too late, which made arriving the best part. Parking in Shaya's driveway was a big portion of the adventure, as the driveway itself could easily be confused with a mountain. The bottom of my faithful little red car was unintentionally scraped clean. The good news is that it was Shaya's birthday. Her twenty-sixth, and it was good to be there on the actual day...er...night. And, to make things about me, her birthday is always a reminder that I, too, will be that age soon. It's a bit sobering. We slept a lot. I took a three and a half hour nap on Friday. I also fell asleep in the middle of one of her stories. This is one of the reasons why we are still friends, the only friend I have kept close, regardless of the distance between us, since high school. I can fall asleep while she is talking to me, and she still likes me. We give each other grace to be, um, human. 

I made the trip from Searcy to Benton, a little community outside of Little Rock, on Saturday morning. Drive two was much better as it was daytime, and one hour as opposed to five, thought thirty minutes into it I got a call from friend #1 notifying me I had left the carrot cake intended for friend #2 in friend #1's refrigerator. I was venturing that way to see Amy, a good friend from college, that is a talented writer, a wife to Kyle, a great source of corny jokes and thoughtfulness, and soon to be, a mother to Owen. We had not spent much time together since college, and it was good to catch up, and good to see, in 3-D, what her life looks like now. 

And outside of the friendliness and catching up and driving around, it was good to just get away. I think that anytime we build roots, whether it be in Seattle or New York or a small town in Iowa, it's ever so easy to get into the rut where possibility is averted, and cast aside, to make room for routine and those things that are most familiar, and often, easiest. Just getting in the car and using directions and the highway system to get me somewhere far away reminds me of the possibilities this life holds. Going to small diners in small towns reminds me that people take risks on investments, and abandoning the mold of 8 to 5 is still done, by all kinds of people people in all kinds of places. 

And in honor of that, I want to say a few words about Frozen Delight, a heck of an establishment somewhere on the outskirts of Searcy Arkansas.  When I asked Shaya if there was anywhere to get ice cream, I had no idea that we were headed for such a wonderful little dive. My first impression was the aroma, a smell from my childhood...of all things fried. The sloping burnt orange booths were topped with the old fashioned plastic ketchup bottles, whose lids look like red witches hats. There were people scattered about, from all sections of life. College students were at the table to our right, and in the booth behind ours sat two couples somewhere near my parents age, enjoying the catfish special. We were there for frozen goodness, and since the ice cream offerings weren't on the wall menu, I walked around a few people in line to get one of the hand-held menus that were, of course, laminated on neon colored paper. I wasn't really thinking of my friends, but rather, of what kind of goodies I wanted in my mix, so I grabbed only one menu, for only me. The tall gray haired man in charge, who was wearing designer jeans and a dingy gray Frozen Delight t-shirt, noticed my carelessness and walked over to us with two other menus, handing them to the friends I had forgotten. In jest, he decided to offer us one of those lovely phrases I don't think I could ever get enough of...he let us know it's something his dad would have said, saying...in reference to my negligence with the menus, "Do those come like dead people? One to a box?". I was already in awe of my experience. This encounter put it over the top. 

Speaking of over the top, they put my ice cream in the cup quite like that. I had to lick the styrofoam sides right as she sat it on the table. I settled for snickers and banana fudge, and it was, most definitely and without question, a frozen delight.

My drive home was more of an evening delight, as I left the area just in time to catch the full spectrum of the sunset, on a breezy fall day, and still make it home before dark. I was into the music, and in my own head, and really, I couldn't think of a better way to spend my evening. I made it home to an old house, with two lovely roommates and all sorts of things to be thankful for. I was especially thankful for the chance to be reminded that we are all different, living in different environments making different choices, and that there isn't a right, a mold, a specific lined out plan to achieve a life of contentment. It's different for all of us, and I went to sleep last night thankful for the choices I have made, and thankful that, despite questions I face, confusions within, and those pesky uncontrollables, contentment abounds. 

four paragraphs+four sentences=all that's there.

It's been a week since I last posted. I have accrued many things to say. 

One, as a human being that has chosen to work in customer service, since I genuinely enjoy helping people, throw your damn trash away. Really, it's yours. You may say to yourself, "I don't need to throw my trash away. It's their job." No, actually it's not. When you pick up a straw, it's yours, not mine. The little paper wrapper that encases your straw to keep it from getting all germy prior to use? That paper wrapper belongs to you as well. The plastic cup that was once filled with a caramel frappuccino? Not mine either. Let me also say that this does not apply to an nice restaurant...or full service diner. But in a coffee shop, whether it be Starbucks or the place on the corner with the really great macchiatos, these places are not full service establishments. Really, all I ask is that, in those moments when you are faced with the option of either throwing your paper cup in one of the sixteen trash cans you pass on your way out or just leaving it on the table, you think about the people behind the counter who are, in fact, people. And remember, as my mother so often told me oh so many times, "Leave things better than how you found them."

Another thing? You may not know this, since it really only applies to me, but this week has officially been deemed "Meredith's Official Tea Week". Or "Tea Week" for short. That's right. This week, each time I am faced with the desire to consume a cup of joe...black magic...liquid caffeine...I am supposed to stop, turn, and make myself a cup-o-tea. I came up with this utterly fantastic idea when rummaging through the many assorted teas we received today at Topeca, the place where I so graciously throw the trash of other people away. Orange spice...darjeeling...black currant...matte...white blossom...these are only a portion of the options I am faced with. And in a moment of honesty, I admitted to myself the fact that, unless I am intentional, I will never make time to give all of these lovely tea options a try. Thus, the coffee fast that will hopefully be the precursor to me, Meredith, tasting the teas. All of them. This week. 

And another thing: This is not meant to be self-deprecating or depressing or anything in that family of negative synonyms. It's something that any haphazard observer of my life would be able to easily deduce. I am, when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex, quite challenged. This is not an easy area for me. I will go further. This area for me is more like a graveyard that has always been. Overgrown, unattended plots and heads stones with etched in dates, reminding one of hope never fulfilled, disappointment prevailing, confusion always, and emptiness, inevitably. I speak plainly about this simply because it is the reality, and I don't ever want to be afraid of what is real, or too scared to face the truth. Upon running into an old friend from any past phase of life, and facing the question, "so, are you dating anyone?" My answer is not only no, but also, actually, I never have. I invited someone to join me for coffee a few weeks ago. This was the first time in my life to have ever done anything remotely close to something that resembles anything like this action. And I say that only to say this: I was experiencing, for the first time at the age of twenty-five, the things that most of my friends were experiencing for the first time when they were ten years my junior.

There have been many emotions associated with this reality throughout the years. Currently, it's confusion. I genuinely just don't get it. I don't understand why it's so difficult for me. Not because I am something amazing, because average people find someone all of the time. Lately, this confusion has made me feel like the contents of my head may cause the bone encasing it to literally EXPLODE. And I realized something today. All of this energy and passion and confusion must be placed somewhere, if I am to keep the head exploding from happening. And so, I am going to try, with intentionality, to put these feelings toward making my life look the way I would like it to with what I have to work with. That's why I run, and also why, at the heart of things, I have labeled this week tea week. Some of that energy will be steered toward drinking, well, more tea. And coming up, some of the passion will be put toward the pursuit of pastry school. In November, I will start my second job that I have taken solely because I want to buy a new bike. And at the end, of the day or the week or the year or even my life, I will be able to say, at least, that I tried. And I will also be able to bake the best cookies EVER, served with a delicious cup of tea.

And now we reach the end of my mellow-dramatic, self-indulgent, trashy post. It's time for some soup. 

the weather.

I wasn't ready to come home. I really wasn't. When asked if I was excited, I kind of shrugged my shoulders, thinking the closer I got to landing, the more likely it would be for my heart to skip a bit. I understand, after having been gone from the land of the morning calm for one month, and by my clock, having already been greeted by the customs man one month and a few short hours ago, why I wasn't quite looking forward to what awaited me. 

I genuinely don't know what direction I want my life to go, and though I know I can do whatever I want, powerlessness rests in the fact that I am not quite sure what that is. And all of these questions and ultimatums were clouded with the fog of a foreign country, and the fact that I was doing something and experiencing something that most people will never get the opportunity to do.  

When I was driving home this past Sunday to eat pancakes with the parents, there was a layer of fog covering different phases of the earth. In the beginning, it hovered over the wet grass, and kept it from being the focal point. I could still see its greenness, but it didn't command my attention, because the mysterious beauty of the visible moisture in the air that's different and rare and only comes around sometimes...It stole the show. When I was in Korea, I was loving the fog.

Now, I must make choices. Today is cloudless, and I feel everything but adequate. 

pay-day.

Two things I overheard people saying this week:

At First Watch, a breakfast eatery in South Tulsa flooded with senior citizens, by a man amongst a group of men with silver hair filing to the back of the cafe, "Is someone sitting at our table?". And then, from one man to another with a cane, "how are you feeling this morning, Sid?"

At planned parenthood, from a young girl with flames on her tank top, as she filled out the mandatory forms, to her boyfriend, whose pants were struggling to stay above his waist, "Am I trying to get pregnant?" And later, when the boy ran into an old friend, the friend said, while doing the informal hand shake that ends as if the hands were sling shots, "Punk, what have you been up to?" to which the boyfriend replies, "well, I just got out of prison last month..." 

Three things I have passed over on the road or highway in the past twenty-four hours:

Last night, a metal ladder, lying diagonal in between two lanes of traffic, on a highway filled with six lanes of traffic. 

A few miles later, a brown boot. 

And this morning, on my way to work, a twin mattress abandoned on a sidewalk under an overpass. There was no one taking advantage of its comfort. 

I have to say, I am continuing to enjoy the benefits of not having to pay for my coffee. The honey wheat bagel I ate this morning was delicious. My right eye continues to twitch, a symptom of either lack of sleep or stress. In my case, I think it's both, as stress has inhibited my ability to get a good night's sleep. I think that's a conundrum, and I think today will be a good day. 

carry-out.

One day last week, I had a job. I peeled, de-cored, sliced and mashed about forty avocados. I cleaned dirty drawers and blended smoothies. I also portioned, weighed, and bagged chunks of pre-cooked chicken. By the end of the day, I was actually allowed to place the pre-arranged sandwiches on the panini grill, and set the timer. The highlight of my day, up to the point when I began to make Marilynn her smoothie, had been my walk to work. 

Marilynn's order was a carry-out, which means, basically, that she needed someone to...carry it out. I abruptly volunteered. She was apprehensive, and felt a little guilty, considering how busy we were, asking, "are you sure it's OK?". I assured her that I was the new girl, and quite dispensable, given the fact that up to this point, I was really only trusted with the smoothies.  She was grateful, and gracious, and though the walk to her car only took a few minutes, its details will remain with me indefinitely. We talked about the weather, and about how nice it was outside, and about her artificial hip, and how the rain always makes it just a little more painful. I told her about my rainy but enjoyable walk to work, and where I live. She was surprised by my walk, and its distance, so I told her about where I had just come from, and about how walking had taken me so many places over the past two months. She glanced at me with knowing eyes, and said, "so it's just a part of you right now"... I paused.

Yes. That's it, exactly.

The job was a blip on the radar. I was feeling desperate, and in need of employment. Walking to work was the plus, the draw, the decision maker. I hadn't put much thought into the actual work, or how the environment would differ from the one I had just left. When the boss was across from me offering me a position and a paycheck, I didn't acknowledge the possibility that the environment I was walking into could be quite torturous in comparison to the glorious challenges that had so recently come to an end.

I walked home, munching on a vegetable hummus pita, and I cried. 

I was thankful for Marilynn, and her effortless ability to articulate something that was resting at my core, in a way that even I had not been able to do. I was thankful that someone got it.  And then I decided that Wednesday was the last day I would walk to that job, and also that really, if walking is a part of me right now, I can walk any time I want, but that it shouldn't be the only reason I would continue to work somewhere that would make most every other hour of my work day miserable. 

Thursday, I drove the walking route and returned my shirt. Today, I am still looking for a job, and walking.

a trade.

10:16 AM

Two weeks ago, I was packing the contents of my life into a suitcase in Cheonan, South Korea, while trying to make it through the last season of Arrested Development. Two weeks from that day, today, I was in a kitchen in a deli mashing avocados in an oversized plastic tub. 

I write this on a break, to make sure I will believe it, in between reading Faulkner and munching on a chocolate chip cookie, while listening to "You Make My Dreams Come True" play through the speakers a few feet away. 

hindrance.

I am convinced. It's somewhere close to the great hindrance of human nature. It's that voice, nagging voice, that stays with us throughout our lives. I don't think it goes away, we just learn, hopefully, over time, how to manage it better.

My mother is a spectacular woman. One of the most giving people I have come across in my life. One of my favorite places to see her is in the company of her near-lifelong friends, the ladies that have known her since she was an awkward sixth grader, when she thought that the people in the small town she was relocating to rode their horses to school. There is no pretending when these women get together. They know too much about each other to be anything that they aren't. It's the environment that she is, arguably, most herself. And when one of these audacious friends says something that touches too close to home, or that catches her a little off guard, her in jest response that she also really means is, "shut the hell up". I have heard this phrase my entire life, and I hadn't really ever had any use for it, until now. 

I was having coffee with some friends the other day. I am currently unemployed, and I have found it enjoyable, if only for a week, to pretend that in life, jobs and income and responsibilities are some of those optional things in life. In light of that, brunches at eleven in the morning, coffee around three, and drinks in the evening, when the sun goes down, have added texture to this game I have been playing. In the midst of the game, good conversation is had, and one sentence that was said during the coffee conversation struck me funny then, and has stayed with me for days. "I am able to be myself." 

This, to me, is not good. An "ability" to be oneself. Someone somewhere giving you or I permission to be who we actually truly are. What would the world be like if it were full of people that weren't just able to be themselves, that weren't waiting for someone to tell them that they were pretty Okay, but rather rolled out of bed in the morning and said, "damn, it's good to be me."

And it's this voice, the one that may sound like your constantly disappointed father, when he told you all of the ways you actually mowed the yard wrong, instead of a simple thank you...or of your pastor, who convinced you somehow that God was disappointed in your humanness, your tendency to fail or mess up or give in to something you had always been told was wrong, and that in order to please Him, you must not do any of those things, ever. It could be the voice of a boss, or your own alter ego, or perhaps just a little devil that sits on your left shoulder, when the angel is nowhere to be found. Regardless of the dress or mannerisms or tone that this voice takes, I am, again, convinced. It's in all of us. It flares when we lose our temper and revert to childish ways, or when we pull out in front of someone, accidently, and they honk at us, and then flip us off. It flares in our relationships, when someone declines an invitation, and we somehow hear that we are actually pretty unlikeable as a whole, and not much fun to be around ever, or when we come up against really successful people, and hear them telling us, of course, how much of a failure we are. 

And it's this same voice that makes us believe that being ourselves is appealing, but not realistic. That being who we truly are is desirable, and something to aspire to, but not what would be best for humanity as a whole. And this is why I have found my mother's phrase so very helpful, because, despite my glowing personality and charm, I am not immune to this voice. It's just that, after years of the voice being the only thing I heard, I began to recognize it a little better.  And when I do, I borrow the wisdom of my mother and tell it to "shut the hell up."

the scoop.

It is one of those really great tragedies of life: The dangling of that which your heart most desires, right in front of you, just out of reach.

I am speaking of ice cream, of course.

The scooping of, rather. That’s the risk you take when you decide to put that responsibility in someone else’s hands.

I have to hold one hand down with the other when standing on the other side of the counter at an ice cream shop. I don’t blame the scoop. It knows its place.

If the scoop were to have a say, I truly believe it would be on my side. I have the tendency to converse with inanimate objects, and I think they respect me for this. Just this morning, I was speaking to my belt as I looped it around my waist. Inanimate objects. They get it, or as my friend Michael would say, “they know how to keep it real”.

Any scoop in charge of my ice cream would know how to keep it real. The scoop would say to me (maybe) something like, “I am sorry Meredith. Really, I am. I heard you say cookies and cream. You obviously want cookies with your cream. If I had a way to do the scooping myself, I would certainly get all the cookies within reach. Really, I would. But the situation is out of my hands, like, literally. I am actually in someone else’s. And they just don’t get it.”

I would thank the scoop for understanding. And then I would step back, force myself to avert my eyes away from the scooping process, and instead, scowl at the scooper. Why? Because it’s the cookies I really want. If it wasn’t, I would just order vanilla. Duh.

Instead, I am teased. I can see an abundance of deliciously sweet chocolaty and crunchy cookies. They are right in front of me, just out of my reach. I walk away with a waffle cone of mostly vanilla ice cream.

returns.

I am back to the world of multiple spoons, a consistently dry bathroom floor, and pulp in my orange juice. 

It was a long journey home. And I don't mean in the metaphysical sense. I mean in the hours-in-the-air-and-time-spent-in-airport sense. I was in two different countries and three separate states. I spent extended portions of time at multiple gates, and extended amounts of money on unnecessary things. I waited on a runway for Delta to unload something they loaded, so that they could unload what was behind it, only to reload it all over again. I didn't wait for Seattle's Best to put the espresso in my soy latte. They forgot. I drank a cup of steamed soy milk instead. 

This was my first extended stay in someone else's country. There was a moment on my last bus ride, headed down town, where I felt a profound sense of gratitude. There was no room to move on the bus, unless you were willing to elbow someone in an awkward place. It smelled of teenagers, as they were just leaving school, many on their way to another, I would presume. There were mothers trying to corral their kids, men in suits loosening their ties, and ajumas holding tightly to the bar on the seat in front of them. I was standing, hovering, and glanced over the crowd of Koreans, out the back window of the bus, at the orange sky and the glowing reflection the setting sun was leaving on everything in my view. That moment brought to surface the gratitude, and I said a silent thank you to the people around me for allowing me to come and stay with them for a while. It was gratitude coupled with a little disappointment, because of the funny nature of timing. I was just beginning to arrive at a place of comfortability with this place and it's culture. It was Tuesday, and I was going to begin my airport marathon in a mere three days. 

When I arrived in LA, after walking through a mazed line of weary travelers to get to the front, I arrived at the man in the box wearing the uniform that would give me the stamp I sought. He looked at my passport, did his inked action, handed me back my paper, and said "welcome home". "Hmmm," I thought. Home. 

It wasn't until I began to board the plane in Atlanta with the tall man in tall jeans, a starched shirt, shining belt buckle, and perfectly shaped black felt hat that I began to feel closer to my familiar version of home. After my last plane landed, I glanced out the window and noticed a patrol car that was actually a Ford pick-up truck. I wished the man in the uniform from LA had been next to me, so that I could explain to him that this, actually, was home.

stuff.

I have heard of culture shock...Coming home and feeling overwhelmed by excess or choices or people. I felt it, as soon as I walked into my bedroom. 

My apartment was close to the size of my bedroom here, greatly resembling the four walls I am currently surrounded by, but it was filled with the bare minimum. I had little more than what I needed. When I got home, set my luggage down, and looked around, I started to feel sick to my stomach. 

Six hours later, I have depleted three-fourths of the clothes in my closet, cut the total number of shoes in half, gathered four bags of books to donate, and filled a thirty gallon trash bag full of junk I didn't even need before I left. 

My ankles are swollen, my eyes are tired, my feet hurt, but I feel lighter than ever. 

a goodbye of sorts.

I debated on doing a "final post from Korea", as it's a bit cliche. And I don't necessarily want people to think I am cliche. 

But if I have learned anything from being here in Korea, it's the freedom in making choices regardless of the judgement of others. 

So there you go. It's my last post from The Land of the Morning Calm. It's cliche. And I am doing it anyway. 

This shall be a few long sentence fragments, because, again, I want to, regardless of the judgement of others, and also, because I am no longer an English teacher...

The gardens that line the streets, the pungent smells, a deeper understanding of the commonality of human beings regardless of surface differences, and the image of chili peppers drying on a piece of cardboard in the middle of the street. A larger circle of friends and acquaintances that I am hoping will provide a deeper character base for any of the books I plan to write in my lifetime, more confidence to just do it (whatever it may be), a love of Korean food, of the spice and the flavor and the freshness...And the way it will effect my cooking for years to come...a more open mind, and a deeper sense of self, more strength in already existing friendships, and a new layer to add to the lens that I view my life from.

Here is to change, and leaving what has become familiar to return to that which was. To culture shock and jet lag and longing that comes from exposing oneself to something or someplace wonderful, and then abruptly walking away. 

I sometimes, or rather, I often wonder what it is I am doing with my life. I think that I am living it. 

seeing.

I am a loser...Of things. I was infamous among my high school friends for my talent. It drove my mother crazy. Purses in restaurants, wallets in waiting rooms, keys in doors, and most ardently and recently, glasses, wherever I am not. 

Before coming, I had bought a new pair. They were blue and lovely, and now they are in a store's lost and found box, somewhere in Seoul. I was told that glasses were fairly cheap here, and if I had my prescription, perhaps I could attain some before I left. 

My mom emailed me the numbers. I had what I needed. But there was the unsettled apprehension of the unknown...what if the guy at the counter doesn't speak English? What if the prescription is different here than there? What if I try, and in the process, make a fool of myself? And therein lies the adventure. 

It's a strange thing, fear coupled with excitement. Things that intimidate also provide a thrill. And all this from simply going to buy a pair of spectacles. 

I knew of a place on a corner on a street. I walked there, glanced in, and walked on past. Then I hesitated. "Just do it Meredith!" I told myself. The gentleman inside looked kind, so I turned around, and struggled through the clean glass doors. I acted a little foolish, but he was so kind, and greeted me with a, "can I help you?". Sigh. Yes. Yes you can. 

I showed him my prescription that I had scribbled down, rather neatly, on a little notepad, commenting that I wasn't sure if it was the same here as elsewhere. I am not sure if he got what I was saying, though I think he recognized the apprehension in my voice, and he quickly assured me that it could be done. Sigh, again. 

I shopped for frames, and he offered me a cold fruity drink. I put on a pair, and he nodded in approval or dismay...saying things like..."too small," or "red is better," or saying nothing at all, simply and kindly shaking his head no.

I found two that I liked, whose prices were right. I decided on a basic pair, and also, a pair of prescription sunglasses, something that would add a layer of safety to both my life and the lives my my fellow car drivers. 

He took my empty fruity glass bottle, and filled out the form. I think I said thank you and kamsamnida sixty times. He said my sunglasses would be ready Friday, and my spectacles would be ready in twenty minutes. I sat, waited, and read. Twenty minutes later, I hear, "Miss Meredith," and he smiles, letting me know he's finished. 

When I left, my picture of life was a little clearer than it was before I walked in the little shop on the corner on the street.

thinking, back.

After returning from a fun-filled trip to Seoul, the end is beginning to kick in. 

People were talking about returning to work. I am done. My ticket has been printed off. There is an empty suitcase waiting to be filled. Instead of filling it, I have simply strewn its eventual contents about, as if getting everything out lets me know where everything officially is. I officially created a disaster of my apartment. I wasn't in the mood to organize it all, as my mind was feeling disorganized. My preference for continuity prevented me from taking responsible action, and instead, I left everything where it didn't go, and started to put together my miniature scrapbook. This made me feel nostalgic, and also, the fact that it's Sunday. I usually feel more nostalgic on Sundays. And then, after not finishing the arts and craft project, I decided go for a run, which meant that I had to put on the proper attire. Oh, but not until I upload photos onto my web gallery, I told myself. That should come first. And then the run. 

Post run, and on the edge of a disastrous mess, I am still feeling nostalgic. Can you guess what comes next? A Korean list-ish of a few of the things here I have come to take for granted from the past sixty-seven days of my life. The number sixty-seven does no justice to it's contents. And don't confuse it with a list of things I will miss. I am reevaluating the concept of miss, and therefore, don't feel confident giving the list-ish that label.

Time. I have so very much of it. Time to run, and read, and write, and read some more. Time to catch up with myself. 

The feeling of confidence in a long walk home, and not being talked out of the "impractical" when there is a bus and a taxi, both to my left, eager to get me wherever. 

Getting paid too much for doing very little. I have begun to calculate how many hours of work at home it would take me to acquire my most recent purchases. It's very sadly. 

An abundance of Korean food. There was a Chik-fil-a discussion this weekend, and it was mentioned by someone other than myself that I will have access to that in a matter of days. The funny thing? I was thinking about how the discussers would have the very same kind of access to the Korean food I have come to love, and take for granted. 

Being somewhere, and not somewhere else. I have managed to ignore the fact, for the majority of the latter grouping of days, that I have to leave. This has given me a false sense of ease, and comfortability. I am about to embark on yet another season, in such a short amount of time, that is full of nothing at all concrete. It's mostly sand, and mud, and some muddy water. 

Hence the disorganized state of my head and room and, well, life; continuity. 

my favorite pooch...

petey.

the wheels on the bus go round and round.

I would just like to make it known that this semi-newbie helped an official newbie figure out the proper way to take a bus last night.

We all remember Meredith's experience with bus number three that turned into her experience with bus number twenty-two, don't we?

How on earth can I be trusted to show someone else!?

Well, I was trusted. So there.

That's what you call growth, friends and foes.

And also, I think, a full circle moment. Full circle trips, however, should be avoided on buses.

myself and change | myself changing.

Though I know I will be welcome home with open arms, the feeling of returning is a bit foggy.

I have been here long enough to have distanced myself from what I left...not on purpose, but as a necessary means of survival. I have missed out on summer time there, and key changes that have taken place without asking my permission, both grand and not so. One of my roommates might have found a boy, my boss is gone, I quit my job and must find a new one, Mary is moving out after September, Tonia is traveling the country, and also quit her job. I won't have a home after October, I missed my brother's trip home, and time with my nephew that the rest of my family was able to experience. Haydyn is now talking up a storm, and email was not sufficient in keeping me up to date with the daily nuances of the people there I love.

I have changed since being here. There are more things I know, more that I don't know, opinions that have been altered, and beliefs that have been adjusted. I would like to think I am a little stronger, but perhaps that's wishful. I have gotten used to talking less, which is not a bad thing, just a true thing. I have adjusted to my life here, and this place has become comfortable for me. There are things that I shuddered at the thought of doing when I arrived, and can now do with ease and confidence. I enjoy my time alone, reading and writing, and just being. I enjoy the people I have been able to connect with, and will miss those I am leaving behind.

Missing, however, is a reality of life, no matter the side of the continent I am on.

These are all just characteristics of the jumbled feeling going on inside of me. During the flight home, I will arrive in multiple states of which I have no interest in being. They will be true places of limbo, a real version of me being dangled between two worlds I have come to love, one of which I am going to, and one I am leaving behind. The very act of me having left the one means it will never be what it was to me. The porch is still there, it is still good. But it isn't the same. And the act of leaving the other, something I will do in a little over a week, is a door truly closing, a time for this summer season to end, in a very real way.

Something I have come to realize, something of importance, is myself. I am the constant in the midst of limbo. And with that, I shall always have something familiar. This is why fear is so very dangerous, because a self engulfed in fear and doubt is not recognizable. If I wish to survive transition and change, difficulty and plight, I must be able to recognize myself, regardless of where I am.

The constant other than myself is change, and how grateful for that I am. For seasons change, regardless of my choices, and the season that will soonest greet me is Autumn. Sigh.

I shall type it at the bottom, taking you back to the top:

"It was a fine autumn day, really, and the air through the open windows smelled like life."
Jesse Ball

gallimaufry.

Some things of interest, or maybe not. Irregardless:

After a day of possessing jumbled head syndrome, and intentionally neglecting to run (master of procrastination), I force myself out the door after class at eight in the evening, and (without forethought) finish my longest run in my nike+ history. 

I, again, almost get run over by a speeding bicycle. However, this time it is by a man who is ringing his bell in warning. I interpret the ding as part of my music, realize my error, and jump out of the way. 

I eat a bowl of cereal at nine in the evening, post long run, with no guilt whatsoever. Not that I would have had guilt anyway. 

I have created a second blog. Though it may be unnecessary, it could also be fun. It will be about my adventures with food. I like to eat, I like to cook, I like to bake, and I like to write. This will be the reading dish where all of those ingredients create an enticing flavor. Yes, that was cheesy. Ha. I did it again! Get it? Cheesy?! My first post is an ode to the potato.

I am reading The Disastrous Tale of Vera and Linus, and it is...too much and just enough. It combines poignant absurdity, fantasy, and morbidity with the mundanity of real life-ness - all of these things I adore. To find them together in one book. Inspiring. 

I have been going to bed quite early as of late, and rising effortlessly without an alarm. 

Seriously. Michael Phelps. 

I have finished five of the six films in the Star Wars movie bunch. I now understand that four came before five, and before one, and also after, depending on your age and which side of the street you are standing. I have seen the firsts, four five and six, and two of the lasts, one and two, and shall watch the middle and the most recent, three, before departure. May the Force be with you. 

I have taught a total of six hours this week, bringing the amount of time I have left in the classroom to...drum roll...nine hours. I shall spend nine more hours working, and the rest, well, not working. The week that follows this will be a sort of vacation, which follows eight weeks that have felt like a vacation. What did I do to deserve this?

I wrote today about limbo, but thought, perhaps, three blog posts in one day may be excessive. 

I also applied for a job. It's not high and mighty, but my mom assured me she would be proud of me even if I never have a - successful in the eyes of the world - kind of job. Thanks mom.  

subway seat.

I had been reading the same book here for over a month. Nearly every day, Ayn Rands words were a part of my life. There were a lot of pages to read, which meant it took a lot of days, which effectively made it a part of my routine. When I finish a book like that, with an excessive number of pages, and speeches by characters that last seventy pages, I feel triumphant. And I also feel sad. I start to go for the book during the lull times of the day, wondering what new aspect will be revealed to me about one of my favorite characters. And then I catch my mistake, remind myself that it's over, and reach down for whatever book has taken its place.

My newest book is very short, and its contents reside in stark contrast to the writing of Rand. It's more abstract, less concrete, less tangible. Rand would probably have the main character thrown in jail. Or at least get in a fist fight with him. He is a cartographer and monk living in Venice, and receives visits from various travelers aching to tell him of their journeys and their finds; both of their tangible discoveries of the land, and also the experiences they went through while immersed in another culture, that are difficult to articulate and explain.

With each of the confusing and inadequate moments that pass me by, I believe more and more that there is a constant undercurrent running through the base of each of our days that consists of misunderstanding.

For obvious reasons, I have placed myself in perfect circumstances for this phenomenon to exert its presence. I am in a foreign country where my language is not the first, and my attempts to speak theirs are often childish and futile. On one of my first weekends here, we went to see movie, and I wanted to try the chirros, a donut like pastry rolled in cinnamon and sugar. I let the kind man behind the counter know that, and he proceeded to scoop some cheese into the empty pocket of the nacho container for my movie enjoyment. 

Riding the subway in Seoul last weekend, trying to get from somewhere to somewhere else, a random act of kindness helped illustrate this phenomenon in my head. An Ajuma, who is a mother, and typically older, who has earned her badge of respect, is usually nudging others out of their seat. It's the culture here, and it makes sense. But kindness is optional. They often don't even notice lines in the bathroom, meaning, they have reached the point in life where "lines" don't apply to them. These are all grave generalizations, as there are many Mary Poppins like Ajumas roaming the streets every day. They just get less notice. 

When I hopped on to the subway car on the orange line, there were no definable seats. There was an empty section, reserved for the elderly and disabled, and since I am neither, I stood. The Ajuma sitting in a seat next to me pointed to the section, letting me know she wanted me to take a seat there. I appreciated the gesture, but didn't want to break the rules. And before I knew it, she had moved out of her seat, across the isle into another, leaving me room to sit in her place, pointing at the emptiness with the tip of her umbrella. And then she just smiled at me, from below her visor, with the kindest sort of smile. And I was so moved. I genuinely couldn't believe the extent of her kindness.

It's not that people here are rude to me, but for the most part, I get more awkward stares from Ajumas than kind smiles. And the effort she took to help me simply be able to sit really got to me. I was sitting there in my seat, looking at my new Korean hero in her turquoise pants and flower print shirt, trying to find a way to express with words how her kindness made me feel. "Take a picture," I told myself. THAT will capture the moment. And then I began to feel this sinking, it will never be enough sort of feeling. 

I wanted so bad to capture the essence of what I had experienced, through memory, or words, or photography, and then I was reminded of the words I had just read in my book, "A Mapmaker's Dream", that went: 

"I realized at once that this was the form his silence had taken, and he had come to see me in the hope of sharing with me the very strangeness of his experience. To his disappointment, he had discovered that it was impossible to explain how he felt."

It happens in friendships, in marriages, between parent and child. Your mother is trying to tell you that she thinks you look pretty in that dress. You hear her say you don't usually look pretty in anything. A laugh that followed someone's words could be rooted in unacknowledged embarrassment, but interpreted as if you were making light of whatever was said. 

It's a language that's deeper than words, and it rests below the surface of easy explanation; it was written from personal experiences that were solely yours, solely felt by you. You can't google its meaning. This I am learning.

Though the reasoner in me wants to make sense of it, and make sense of everything, I think, maybe, some things just cannot be explained, packaged and neat. And sometimes, an attempt at explaining them negates whatever essence I am trying to capture. Sometimes, when dealing with strangers on the subway and people and life, I must simply be confused, hurt, moved, encouraged, bumfuzzled, thankful. And there is something in the raw acceptance of those feelings void of extreme explanation, and the knowledge that people will be there even when things can't be explained, that makes me feel more alive.

(un)salt(ed).

I bought salt quite a while ago. It was sometime within my first two weeks here, which could also be looked at as "The time that Meredith was still a little afraid of the grocery store". I have since moved to the "Meredith is so lazy she must be dragged to the grocery store" phase, but that's not really the point at all. Salt. I decided I didn't want my eggs to live without their iodized companion, so I went in search of the famous couple throughout history, salt and pepper. Pepper was a cinch. It said "pepper" in English on the container, which helped. Salt proved to be the dysfunctional one in the relationship. There were too many clear containers of dry substances in the form of crystal white specks. I asked for help, and though the ladies that take so much pride in their designated spice isle tried, their attempt at help only confused me more, as I had no idea what they were saying, and the other way too. I trusted my instincts, my first guess when presented with multiple choices, and then I got the heck out of there. And I am happy to report that my eggs have been delicious! They have a distinct flavor that I have not been able to quite determine, but are seriously the best eggs I have ever taken the time to prepare.

A few days ago, when Hyerin and I were preparing to bake the most delicious peach pie ever, a few ingredients had to be attained. "Check salt off the list," I told her, as I knew I had plenty. Fast forward to preparing portion of the story. We get to the part in the recipe that asks for salt, and I point to her that it's in the cabinet, "next to the pepper". She returns with my clear container full of a substance in the form of crystal white specks, and she kindly informs me that it's not salt.

What's great about all of this food confusion is that the grocery store didn't sell unsalted butter, so we had to use salted, which meant we didn't need salt for our pie. Great outcome number two is the fact that I found out the reason why my eggs were so freaking fantastic, and the reason was something I didn't mean to do.

I just love it when things accidently turn out so much better than you had expected.


The 

clear

container 

with 

the 

red 

lid 

is 

the 

not-salt 

substance.

an election year.

I love peaches. Like, a lot.

When I was a wee little lad, my brother and I had a sort of fruit rivalry, which worked out in each of our favors - I loved peaches, and he loved plums. I let him eat the plums, and he let me eat the peaches.

At one point, I discovered the glory of peaches and cream. Fresh, fragrant, juicy and cold peaches, sliced in to bitable pieces, placed in a bowl of cold creamy milk. Delicious.

In my middle school years, a time period I would give nothing to relive - as so much of it is racked with insecurity, my friend Chrissy day had a birthday party. It may have been thirteen, that year that ushers us previously presumed children into the misguided mentality of teenage adulthood. That year, the Presidents of the United States of America, a grunge band from Seattle, released a song with meaningless lyrics, touting the abundance of peaches in their life. My friends and I sang that song in endless amounts at her slumber party, feeling cooler than cool, while we ate gushers and chatted online via the wonders of AOL.

A few weeks ago, a friend was singing that song (I can't remember why), and I was reminded of that birthday party. I told him the story I just typed to you. He wasn't really interested. You don't have to be either, and that party isn't the point of this post. It may not have a point, actually, akin to the lyrics of the song.

But it's not over.

I was just sitting here at my computer, humming the tune of the song to myself, because I have four peaches in my refrigerator, delivered right to my door by Hyerin. Her and her boyriend retrieved them from a real life Korean Peach Festival in one of the neighboring tiny little towns settled outside of this one.

...millions of peaches, peaches for me...millions of peaches, peaches for free...

Sometime in between adolescence and adulthood, I discovered the joys of baking. You know this, as some would argue that I don't shut up about it. I was once intimidated by the homemade pie crust. I was afraid of messing up, of its fickle nature, of the fact that no one recipe tells you EXACTLY how much ice cold water to add. It's always, "add this much and then if it seems like it needs more, add that much...but be careful to not add too much...". And then there is the question, "do I use butter or crisco?...or both?...or neither? maybe oil?...yes, that's the answer...oil...no, wait, this person said her oil based crust was a bust...". I don't deal well with ambiguity, and I stayed out of that baking realm. And then I realized that way of thinking was silly.

...no one will die if I make a bad pie...really, what I should do is just try...

And so I did make a pie. And then another, and before you knew it, I was a baker of homemade pies. Which brings me to my next, possibly meaningless, point. I am going to bake a peach pie with my friend Hyerin, the bestower of kindness and also peaches, on Wednesday. They have a toaster oven, and way too many peaches. I have a love for baking pies, and a love for most things in the peach realm. We shall pull our resources together, and together, make a peach pie.

I shall play the song for her while we bake

...millions of of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free...

And for a peachy conclusion: years have passed since that meaningless, unforgettable song made its way into my life. Time has changed me, but some things still stay unchanged and true: I still love peaches. I still let insecurity get the best of me from time to time. I still feel really cool around my close friends. I still use some form of the internet to communicate with people that I think are a necessary part of life. I still find myself pretending to officially be an adult.

...millions of of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free...