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.