a song for me, a story for her.

I have it in my head that I write better in the mornings. I do not know if this is true, but in case, I have decided to pretend that it's morning, and I am here sipping coffee on a coffee stained couch before the rest of the world has made it out for the day. Ryan Adam's Demolition album is playing in my ears, and this is appropriate for two reasons. One, it's a good morning album. The pace of a morning that belongs fully to me is slow, but not too slow. I don't want the music to put me back to sleep, but rather ease me into the day. Reason number two is a person, a friend. I am writing this post because of her, and I am listening to Ryan for the same reason. She was his fan first, and her love for his music is what prompted me to buy my first Ryan album. 

I moved to Tulsa in the winter of 2006. I grew up in the area, so it was near home, but my familiarity to the city was relegated to a four mile span of shopping, somewhere in the mess of seventy-first street. Though I had always been near Tulsa, I hadn't ever been a Tulsan. I began working for the wal-mart of coffee the following January, which brought into my life a few Tulsans, and from that, my very own residence in this city. 

I remember the first time I saw this friend, this fellow Tulsan, that I am writing about. I was the new girl working behind the bar, messy from coffee and a general sense of sadness left-over from the previous season of my life. She walked in wearing a beautiful white coat, her flawless complexion and sincere smile intimidating awkward and insecure me. She sat down gracefully at the seat reserved for her next to my boss. I wondered who she was, and had already decided that she was definitely too cool to befriend me.  

Funnily enough (a phrase she created), she was thinking something similar about my coolness (not to be confused with gracefulness), and our simultaneous intimidation of each other somehow canceled all of that nonsense out, enabling us to become the best of friends, kindred spirits, and all of the other phrases associated with this phenomenon. 

My first summer in Tulsa was beautiful. I had began to come out of the sadness that was still following me around in January, and so much of this growth came because of the beautiful people that were beginning to fill my days. Many of my evenings were spent in her kitchen, consuming delicious food, or her patio, consuming delightful wine. Conversation was easy, and silence was comfortable. 

I remember a conversation from the beginning of our friendship. We were sitting outside at the cafe where we worked, having just finished up yoga, sipping iced beverages in the sunshine. We talked about what we wanted to do, and the creativity we had in common. She was about to marry the love of her life, and trying to finish up her degree. We began to talk about what a surprise Tulsa was to the both of us, and how much we actually really enjoyed it. I asked her if she thought she would move, and she said if she did, it would likely be because of her future husbands' future residency. I asked when that would be as, even then, I didn't want to imagine being in Tulsa without her. She said two years, I breathed out, and sighed on the inside. "Surely I will be gone by then", I thought to myself. Surely not. 

I spent the summer of 2008 in Asia, leaving her to peruse through the brutal Oklahoma humidity without me. I missed the people in my life while I was there, but most of my emotional capacity was spent figuring out the foreign ways of the culture around me. There wasn't anything around to remind me of anything in particular. I was being cushioned by change (perhaps this is one of the reasons I like it so much). I didn't question my friendship with her while I was away, but I didn't fully appreciate it either. 

When I returned to Tulsa summer was inching towards fall, and I was inching away from most of the things around me. I wasn't quite ready to leave traveling behind, and not quite ready  to return to this place. My confusion and inner angst that followed me home were, this time, cushioned by the familiar. I was glad to see my friend. I was thankful for her care, thankful to be in her presence and for understanding way, though I still didn't fully appreciate her. 

This spring marked the two years that couldn't keep from passing, the two years we had talked about over iced beverages. She graduated, and so did her (now) husband. He applied for residencies, and she prepared to move wherever is was that he matched. Texas got him and consequently, her, which gave me yet another reason to dislike the Lonestar State. I helped her move her belongings into a U-Haul truck, thinking more about the post moving margaritas that were going to be consumed than her upcoming and inevitable absence from my summer. While loading their things, her husband grabbed her bicycle to roll up the ramp, intending to lean it alongside his. She stopped him, and let him know that her bike stays. He looked at her with confusion, and she met his glance and informed him, "I am leaving it with Meredith to use. Her bike got stolen and she rides it to work. I ride mine once a year." He (I think somewhat objectionably) obliged. After the margaritas, I stuffed the bike in my trunk, gave her a hug, and made my way home. She left for Texas the following morning. 

Last week I received an email from Itunes, informing me that this very dear friend Chris had gifted an album to me; Tom Petty's album Wildflowers. She had told me before that the song reminded her of me, though I wasn't familiar with the tune. I downloaded my gift and synched it onto my ipod. 

After listening to the song, not only did I feel honored, that someone would hear such beautiful, full of life lyrics and think of me, but I also felt cared for. And this is something that this friend of mine can't help but do. She is a caregiver, by nature. This is one of the reason's her husband fell in love with her, and one of the reasons, I now know, I didn't fully appreciate her. There were evenings during our first summer as friends when I was liking someone that wasn't liking me back. I would call her, broke, sad and confused. She would sit me at her kitchen bar and listen while she cooked something comforting especially for me. Just being in her presence would put me at ease, and looking back on that now, so much of that was because of her caring nature. When I moved out of my house with no where to move into last Christmas, she insisted I stay with her. When I told her my bike was stolen, she insisted I take hers. 

I write this because she is so deserving of praise, and because here in Tulsa, in the summertime, I miss her. I understand what she felt last year when I left, and though it's late in coming, I am without her, and fully appreciating her. 

risk, and the color orange.

Lately, love and all of its potential glory has been pushing against the force of my hands, like magnet against magnet. My coffee stained hands are always trying to push hope and possibility into the locked chest. 

I was just sitting at the bar with my favorite barista who has been out of the country for the past week reading a newspaper article about love. One of his customers made his way to the bar and was seeing his friend for the first time since returning. Customer's face lit up because, though it had only been seven days, customer missed his friend. Barista's face could see customer's joy, and met it with a smile. I had just been privy to a moment, a sincere exchange between two people. 

I am not a good matchmaker, like in the movies. I don't like pressuring people to do things. I don't like meddling. I like watching life happen and seeing goodness unfold in front of me that hasn't been tainted by my sway. But I have also noticed that forwardness doesn't come easily to a lot of people, including myself, and insecurity is always battling the part of us that's willing to take that risk, trying to convince us that we have too much to lose. But when someone takes a risk, and others get to see something real between two people, hope reemerges. This is why I am becoming an advocate for risk.

To me, the mutual attraction factor seems to be the most difficult. There have been some middle aged truck drivers interested in me, for sure. But I haven't wanted to go there. And there have been a plethora of men that have peaked my interest, but for whatever reason, I failed to effectively peak theirs. Perhaps it was my loud laugh, or (as a college classmate told me) my tendency to make things really awkward. Or maybe it was simply their own fear. Whatever the reason, nothing. 

Seeing two people out there that maybe, just maybe, are interested in each other, brings to surface that hope that's been hanging out in the chest. Seeing neither of them do a thing pushes it right back down. Since I am pushing it down most days anyway, outside help isn't welcome. Seeing someone take a risk to get to know someone else, even if it isn't me, is very welcome. It's helpful. And for that, I will get involved, if just a little. I will meddle, if it means helping someone see that they are great, and that risk is worth it. And this involvement, this speech I seem to be spouting at others on a regular basis, has been shifting something on my insides as well.

I walked into the same coffee shop a few days ago. It was hot hot hot outside, and I didn't want to turn on my AC. I was hoping for my corner table. Odds were in my favor, as there was only one customer and one barista occupying the cafe. Alas, my table was occupied by the lone customer, who happened to be a beautiful dark haired bearded man with a ring free left hand. Oh man. 

We both stayed until close. I definitely checked him out as he made his way to the counter, and bathroom, and then back to his corner seat. He was probably aware. We both left at the same time. I made it outside without my wallet or my keys, as I was a little distracted. He got onto his orange motorcycle. I watched. He was definitely aware. I retrieved my keys, made my way to my car, which happened to be right passed him, smiled and exclaimed that I liked the way he looked, sort of.  The words that came from my mouth were "I like the orange," but I am pretty sure he heard what I meant. 

patio.

My bench is resting on a rectangular slice of concrete. The rectangular slice of concrete is acting as my faux patio. I say faux because neither the bench nor the concrete belong to me. In the meaningful sense, they belong to someone who knew Caroline Cook. The bench is dedicated to her memory. In the realistic sense, the entire bench patio package probably belongs to the City of Tulsa's Parks and Recreation Department. 

My elbow is resting on an arm of wood, and my back is leaning against a bronze colored plaque, etched with the previously noted dedication, bearing the name of Miss Cooke, who must have meant a lot to someone, somewhere. My bench rests beneath a tree that acts as my faux canopy. The branches hang low. My head grazes the dangling leaves as I walk toward the trunk, but once I am under their protection, I can stand upright, as if the leaves are the nylon of nature's umbrella, the branches are the stretching metal, and the trunk an adjustable handle. My benches' position beneath the tree is, simply, right. 

I sit here in appreciation. I have no patio of my own. I am thankful for my home, but I do not belong anywhere outside of it. My front yard is someone else's backyard, and like the bench belongs to Tulsa, everything I live in belongs to the people that own my front back yard. My appreciation for Tulsa's patio extends to Caroline, for being the kind of woman that merits such an idyllic bench, placed in a fantastical location, under an umbrella tree overlooking a garden of roses, all in her memory. 

free.

The winter of my Sophomore year of college was one of the not-best. For some reason I began to get sad, after being quite happy for a good bit of time. I have looked back and tried to reason through it, catalogue it, identify the turning point. Conclusively, I cannot. I remember things changing a bit in November. I remember the things that had been coming easy began to get a little harder. Christmas turned out to be less break-like and more sad-like. The only things I remember enjoying from that little stint were the multiple Harry Potter books I raced through in a matter of days, and the book "Girl Meets God", by Lauren Winner. I had seen the book at Barnes and Noble with my mom earlier in the year. I pointed it out to her, read her the synopsis as if she cared, and carefully placed it back between the other g's on the shelf. I was in the poor college student phase (as opposed to the poor post-college student I am now...Different post) and the book was $26. 

Opening presents that year, I realized that my mom is a surprising lady. She was listening to me, she remembered, and bought and wrapped it for me to open Christmas morning, months later. I remember sleeping in my brother's room over break. His room is really small. It's quite closet like, actually. I converted his tiny room into my own personal cave. Had I woken any particular morning to the sight of a bat resting on my pillow, I would not have been alarmed. It's likely that I would have rather greeted the marvelous creature with a pleasant sounding "good morning bat".  I left that cave to retrieve food, sometimes. I think I managed to get my expanding ass out once to run. But mostly I just stayed in my cave bed, and read. "Girl Meets God" was revolutionary for me, and I think Lauren Winner's words helped me from diving into complete hibernation. It was the book that birthed my open mind. Her writing was so honest and raw, and her perspective and experience with God so real. She talked of church as a greater body, as opposed to a congregation that met in a building, and she said shit. The book had a big impact on the person that I am still becoming. 

Sitting in front of a computer my senior year of college, scrolling through the lists of chapels for the semester, I almost fell from my chair when I read what it was I had read. Lauren Winner, the same one I had read in the cave, and reread in the years since, the same one that had shared so much of her story with me as if I was trustworthy, was going to be visiting campus, and speaking at one of our chapel services. Oh my. This, to me, was bigger than meeting a celebrity. This person was a real person that had had a tangible and chartable impact on my life. 

My friend Amy was on the newspaper staff that year, and had the privilege of interviewing Miss Winner for an article. She said I could come. I even remember what I was wearing. I went, and I was awed. She was normal, personable, confident, and she wore skirts and didn't shave her legs! And also, she was kind. She could probably tell my insecurity was insurmountable. I soaked in every wise word she spoke. I read all of the fliers, and showed up at all of her talks. I asked her how I am supposed to figure out what to do with my life. She said I could stay with her anytime I was in the area. I felt like her campus stalker. She was patient, and managed to keep me from feeling like the creeper I probably appeared to be. 

There is this musician that plays amazing music here in the city where I live. I hadn't ever heard her music before seeing her live. This usually means I am less likely to love what I am about to hear. She defied that logic. I was hooked. She is a performer. Each time I see her, I am flooded with the thought that she will eventually explode, both in the on-stage sense and the famous sense. It will be one of those stories that I will share with whomever I am speaking: "I used to listen to her in a hole in the wall dive when her shows were free!"

And tonight, while sitting outside the free venue waiting for the music to begin, my mind went back to that interview with Lauren, the one where I was allowed to sit in. But in my head, Amy was interviewing Fiawna. I don't know this woman personally. I have heard kind things about her from people that do. But there is something about her music and the way she performs it that exudes the confidence that I believe all of us women hope for, the same kind confidence that Lauren had. It's something that I am inclined to follow. 

Since devouring all of Lauren's writings since that first book, and driving to listen to Fiawna anytime I know she is playing, I am most thankful when talented confident women share a part of themselves with people they don't know. It's a reminder to step out of your cave, whatever your cave may be. 

stares.

This post is coming to you strait from my living room. And bedroom. And office. It's all the same room! Never before has this happened for you, reader. I am frugal. More out of necessity in this season of my life than principle, but for whatever the reason, I won't pay the thirty or so dollars a month for this wonder that has swept the globe. Some day and nights, on the rare occasion, I catch that gracious person's connection, the one that leaves it unlocked. I covet the blank space next to available signals. I sigh when all I see are locks. Tonight, no lock.

My frugality is not limited to internet usage. It's far reaching, deep into the complexities of life threatening temperatures.  People die every summer from too much exposure to heat. I don't want to be one of those people that die, but I also don't want an astronomical electric bill, one that surpasses my current income. So the goal: Don't turn on my air conditioner all summer. Steadfast would I be. I have shared this hope with a few. I am usually met with looks of bewilderment and responses bearing caution. "In Oklahoma, your AC is a necessity, not an option," one of my customers told me. My mom warned me, kindly and without condescension, that eventually I would not be able to sleep. Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever. Bodies acclimate. We all use and depend on some many things we don't really need. I wasn't worried. 

The worry came at one in the morning last Wednesday. I couldn't sleep. The word necessity entered my mind a time or two. I stared at the ceiling, body encased in sweat, and had a moral argument with myself on the choice that was before me. I tried just telling my body to acclimate. It went something like this: "Damn-it body! Acclimate! Now!" It didn't. I turned on my lamp, stumbled into the kitchen, and fiddled with the switches. The decision became more complicated at this point. Do I turn it on low cool and high air, low cool and low air, or medium cool and low air? Do I open the exhaust switch or leave it closed? What in the hell is the exhaust switch? 

I walked back into my living room/bedroom/office and realized that all of my effort would likely produce only minimal results, as the air conditioner was in the kitchen and my bed was through the doorway and around the corner along the wall settled as far from the kitchen as possible. So I began, at one-thirty in the morning, rearranging my furniture. 

By the time my bed was in the space it would now reside, where the golden chairs used to be, I was comfortably cool, and wide wide wide awake. I laid back down in the same bed on the opposite side of the room, and at a (now) much cooler temperature, continued to stare at the ceiling. 

stoned.

I was told last night that I had a hard heart. It was a joke. Funny funny ha ha. But it's sometimes difficult for Meredith to leave intended jokes as jokes when their subject matter is not joke-like at all. 

I thought about it last night, upon returning home to climb into the twin bed that occupies the apartment which I occupy alone, and wondered whether or not it was the reason why I have been occupying things alone all of my life. No, it can't be, I thought. It's a product of all of that. Not the cause of it. 

I thought about it this morning, and I was back in that purple chair in that cookie-cutter room on that seventh grade Sunday School morning. Our learning topic was the reality of God hardening hearts. Their hearts are filled with confusion and doubt and he gets sick of dealing with their disbelief or rejection or disobedience, and so he takes their wayward wishy-washy heart and takes away its capacity to know him. I was relieved that day, assured because of my blatant belief, that I would not ever have to be one of those people. Not today. Yikes. 

I thought of it a few hours later, in the coffee shop, when responding to a friends email. Apologies were made because of vulnerability. I wondered if people apologize for vulnerability because they are aware of this hardened heart that I didn't know was currently occupying my chest cavity. 

I thought if it in "Up", the poignant Pixar movie that shows us, in a matter of moments, that people we love will eventually die. I was waiting for the part where I was supposed to "cry" because I had been told it's "sad". I didn't cry, but instead reached for that part in the center of my body right above my breasts to see if I could feel a rock forming. 

There's no rock. I count my heart beats per minute regularly, so I know it's still working. I cried the other evening in my apartment. I guess I am just wondering what a hardened really looks like.