destiny.

When I was in college not figuring out what I wanted to do, they said I had to have an internship to graduate. I was finishing up a major in a line of study that I was pretty confident I wouldn't pursue. The idea of pretending through a summer my mock future that wasn't ever going to be my real future seemed to have something to do with the core of what's wrong with our higher education system. I found some guy that had a graphic design studio in his attic who said I could follow him around and maybe get his coffee, and also agreed to sign the necessary documents. His name was Mick and he'd been doing it for a long time, and when he asked me what I really wanted to do, I said something along the lines of, "I don't know. I just want to help people."

Here I have been, spending my time waiting tables, pointing to shelves, ringing up purchases, refilling glasses; Via customer service and much to my own dismay, I have spent the past few years, uh, helping people.

placement.

The previous mid-morning Sunday I managed to find a relaxing version of church in my car on my way to sell people Tulsa memorabilia. NPR was in the midst of a five part special exploring the tension between faith and science, which was followed by a segment on Sufiism, the 'mystical' aspect of the Islamic faith. The voice of Coleman Barks, the most prevalent translator to the Western Word of Rumi's poetry, began to stream through my speakers, and I was captivated. His voice was layered and deep, his words thoughtful yet effortless, and wise. His laugh was childlike, amidst all the weightiness that existed throughout the rest of his speak, and he brought Rumi alive to me in a way that I hadn't been able to do with just myself and a book.

It was my task, this past Spring, to choose a poem from his writings to be read at the wedding of a dear friend. I pilfered through pages of multiple collections; The time spent on my own accord in the midst of Rumi's work was insignificant and unmemorable. The same words, read to me, explored and explained verbally with interest added from the writer's story? I haven't been able to get that version of Rumi out of my head.

Searching is a theme throughout his writing, kind of like life. I understand that searching isn't a novelty, or out of the ordinary, but it feels as if I'm being slapped in the face by it more often than not. I was on my way to one of a few jobs I am piddling at nowadays, leaving my parents house on my way to a City I've left more than once to work in a place where I am the new girl and the old girl in a season that feels akin to the few months right after a person graduates from college and everyone they come in contact with asks them what they're going to do next. I didn't have an answer then and I don't have one now, and so when Coleman began to read about the fish, flapping about and looking endlessly for the water even though the fish was in the midst of the water, and the water was inside the fish, my ears heard nothing but his words. The sound of my tires on and the clump of the uneven highway and the cars merging near me and the shake of the make-do plastic holding my stereo sort of in place went silent, and I began to get what there is to get about Rumi.

Last night I enveloped myself in the company of others, and enjoyed myself enough to the point that driving home wouldn't have been wise, so I slept in the guest room of the dear friend who married in the Spring with the ceremony where Rumi was read. I slept on the memory foam mattress topped with a down comforter in the guest room where the walls are painted orange, and I felt at home because of the orange walls, and because that's the way friends that are true inevitably make me feel. I left her house before eight, locked the door behind me, and retrieved my bicycle out of her truck.

The rising sun greeted me and kept me company on my way into down town. All aspects of my morning...My jankety old bicycle struggling up hills, my cold exposed dry winter hands gripping the handle bars, the excessively beautiful sun rise enveloping me like the water around the fish, and inside of the fish...Every damn bit of my morning made me feel anything but displaced, and for the duration of my ride, searching ceased.

Connor showed me a you tube video of a man in San Diego that balances rocks on top of each other on a spot overlooking the water. He takes small rocks and sits larger rocks on top of them, and then keeps going and before you know it you think you're either looking at an optical illusion or that some crazy man has taken the time to glue random size rocks on top of each other in a crooked sort of leaning tower direction. Apparently, "you just have to look for the soft spots" to get these mismatched selection of rocks to rest atop the rest.

There's a girl at the shop where I work that sews stuffed animals together from post-consumer felt, and they're pretty freaking cool. They're called cuddle monsters and they are bright and cuddly and pretty monster like, and these monsters have a following. People buy them, and also, look forward to when new versions arrive. This past Wednesday she had a cuddle monster Christmas party with chocolate ginger bread cookies and a Christmas DJ spinning holiday tunes on a turn table.

Sometimes when I think of all the things that people could do, my head starts to resemble the traffic in Times Square, or maybe the chaos of driving in India.

Right now, all I know is that I am happy to be sitting on this stool in front of this window sipping this coffee typing this sentence. And really, with all of the stuff in the world that there is to know or do or believe in or not believe in or not do or places to go or not go, what's going on for me in this particular moment in this particular spot is really all I can say anything about for sure.

colorful.

Yesterday was a big day for me. Not only did I go to the BANK, one of those mundane cluttered sort of life tasks I usually find very difficult to follow through with, but I also thought of a more convenient way, post bank, to get to my beloved Eastern Market.

The color coated metro map makes maneuvering through the district without a vehicle quite a breeze, except, of course, on the days when rally attendees clog up all forms of public transportation on a mission to restore sanity, but that's the topic of a different post. This Saturday there weren't any zealous-overly-excited-at-the-thought-of-seeing-Jon-Stewart-in-person Rally-ers in sight, and I merely needed to make it to the orange and blue line to get to the most colorful part of the city.

In my mind's eye, this District isn't a particularly eclectic place. When I think of DC, blue is the color that comes to mind, but not bright clear October sky blue. It's more dull and grayish, like the suits I ride the bus with on my way to work some mornings. But when I think of Saturdays at Eastern Market, every color of the rainbow appears in my sight. There are vendors selling jewelry, some hand made and some old costume that still smells musty like my grandmother's jewelry box. One of my favorite booths consists of vintage tablecloths, aprons, and kitchen towels from an era I've only read about and seen portrayed in movies. There are hats, photographs, clothing, in season produce and paintings; In the summer there was lemonade that's now been replaced by hot apple cider. And amongst all of this product being peddled, there's a more laid back version of DC that doesn't have to be anywhere but where they are.

I live near the red line. It's monotone, and doesn't really share it's space with another shade. It's not such a bad thing to transfer lines. It's quite easy, in fact. But not having to has been added to my list of life's simple pleasures. When I realized the bus that takes me to the bank continues on to McPherson Square, home of the orange and blue, and that I could just hop back on post boring bank visit and get to the line I needed to be, I swear I think the sky literally got brighter, and the clouds a little more billowy.

I arrived around eleven and began with my favorite cup of coffee at Peregrine espresso. Just as I was looking for a place to sit with my americano and scone during the busiest hour of the busiest day at likely the busiest coffee shop in the city, the family at the corner table were arranging their trash and dishes to leave. Did I highlight CORNER TABLE enough in the last sentence? Not having to transfer lines and a spot at the corner table on my favorite day of the week at my favorite coffee place in my favorite part of the District? Too much goodness.

I sat down and began to enjoy everything about my morning, including the two little boys sipping their beverages with their dad at the stools across from my spot. One was likely four, the other a year or so younger. The older brother was drinking a San Pellegrino Lemonata from its yellow and blue aluminum can, and the younger a Naked juice in one of those tall plastic bottles shaded by it's mango orange contents. Littler brother wanted to try bigger brother's beverage. Bigger brother clearly didn't want to share. "It's really spicy," he said. "See, it says here on the can that it's a lemon spicy drink. I really don't think you'll like it."

"But I really want to try it," was the youngest response. The dad just smiled at them, and so did I, grateful for the spicy lemon orange mango color this conversation between toddler brothers added to the spectrum of my day.

comfort food.

The wine market where I work is so much more than that. Our window outside has the logo painted in rustic red letters. And it's deceiving.

There's a full kitchen in the back, and it's inhabited on most days by some of the most talented people I know. Our fried chicken was in Bon Apetit Magazine for being one of the best this side of the Mason Dixon Line. I had to look up where that was after learning of the crisp poultry's status. Customers get down right angry when our lunch sandwiches are out of stock. A grown man, somewhere between the ages of my father and my mother's father, actually threw a bit of a tantrum last week when he realized we were out of the turkey blta. He threw his arms up in the air, grabbed a different option, walked to the counter, asked me if those were all the sandwiches we had left for the day (at 3p, well after lunchtime), and then he frustratingly and haphazardly tossed his sopressata sandwich toward me on the counter! The salted caramel bars with a shortbread crust could tempt me to give up chocolate forever, if I had to choose. But the treat I love most? The scones.

I choked on fried chicken when I was little. The crusts on some of the sandwiches scrape the top of my mouth. Besides, the sopressata sandwich has an olive tapenade, which usually produces in me a genuine gag reflex. I've only ever eaten one whole salted caramel bar, and when I was finished, it felt like there was a solid stick of butter lodged somewhere amongst my digestive organs. But the scones have yet to get old, and have actually gained notoriety amongst the titles of my days.

Friday has actually been named "Scone Friday". This made it feel set apart, until a Wednesday happened by and I discovered I could eat the old scones for FREE! This caused me offer Wednesday's the occasional "Scone Wednesday". Those that pass scone free are just regular old Wednesdays.

When leaving work last Sunday, I noticed that there were a couple of scones that had yet to sell, and they were just lying there on the tray casually waiting to be chosen by a thoughtful guest coming in to purchase wine and then being surprised by a surprisingly delicious natively British treat.

And that's why I think I like them so much more than the rest. I am drawn to things far away, fantastical, other-worldly. Fried chicken, for better or worse, makes me think of the KFC buckets we gobbled up as children of parents that both worked full time and then some. Turkey blta's make me think of my childhood hatred of tomatoes and the weekly bacon prepared by my father, in the microwave, surrounded by paper towels, and also, pre-packaged and sliced lunch meat. The pecan bars are reminiscent of the Thanksgiving Holiday and pecan pie, two unarguably American and familiar traditions and treats. But the scones come from across the pond, and are a part of tradition not my own.

There is a course of action for a lot of people in life. Not everyone fits into the typical chain of events, but they're typical because a lot of people do. High School graduation is first, then college, or something like it. After that, there's further education or a job - which may or may not pertain to your degree. Hopefully somewhere in the mix you meet someone else. Companionship is desired by most, and it's anchoring. Even if you don't know exactly where you're going, you know who you'll be going with. So there's a chosen place to live, and a route taken to work, and maybe a kid or two. You may even have fried chicken for dinner, or if you're a vegetarian, maybe salted caramel bars.

Coming here has forced me into an acceptance and approval of myself, and my deviation from the normal course of events. I was walking down the sidewalk today thinking of my life's situation. I am tempted to give the various seasons of my life the label "in between". The acceptance of deviation as simply a different course, as opposed the wrong course, means the seasons aren't in between. In between implies that I am defined by what I have yet to do, and gives less weight and relevance to exactly where I am. Exactly where I am is just grand, just as relevant and likely essential to wherever I will eventually be.

I am, in my mind, taking the fantastical route, the one where fried chicken is no where to be seen, routes to work depend on what time I leave the house and also, which job I am working that day, and scones are chosen and munched in the settling routine moments alongside earl gray.

in ink.

I spent this last weekend in between home and almost home, ultimately in comfort. The same comfort I was running from in June of this year happens to be what I was craving by October.

Life plays the most interesting tunes, and to be somewhere that's familiar and foreign is like when I heard the Willie Nelson album accompanied by an orchestra. Is this what I think it is? Weird, and anchoring. So 'home', the place of my childhood and parent's address, and 'almost home', the city in close proximity, remain strangely familiar and equally distant; A full service gas station. I filled up, and used the time in the car, while someone else filled my tank, to reflect and attain perspective.

I sit here in the District on a Tuesday looking forward to an evening with friends, thankful that I have befriended people that love falafel, and also plotting my exit, which I hope happens sooner than later.

I excel at the exit. I make them grand. It's the thereafter that lacks detail, and monumental purpose. Is it plausible that, for me, the exit is the purpose? And that what happens after is the little a. under purpose's capital P in life's outline? I leave, exit, and then search with pressure for the purpose to follow, forgetting to rest in the elemental experiences that follow change, experiences that are full of the purpose I am searching for, albeit unconventional.

My last and favorite cab driver to date imparted the above wisdom, with an emphatic shaking of his head, alongside insisting that he drop me off right in front of the salon's entrance. He affirmed that "pressuring yourself does more harm than good", and also, that "you're still young! You've got time!" I was tempted to give him an impromptu new and further away address to extend the conversation. "Good Luck Miss Meredith," he said before I slammed the door.

The wisdom continued on the plane, however, after my seat neighbor Mr. Cook asked me what business was in. I answered with something eloquent like, "I'm not." In the tiny jet I took from Memphis to Tulsa, he shared with me the wisdom he's attained over the past sixty-eight years of his life. He reiterated the no pressure sentiment previously imparted by cab driver, as well as my youth, and finally, the nugget that stuck: "Write it it down. Where do you want to be when you're forty? Write it down. Before you get there, you feel aimless, like you're bobbing around at sea. And when you get there, succeeding at something you love, it's like a weight is lifted, even if it's not permanent. Writing it down has worked for me twice," he said. These words should come as no surprise to an aspiring writer, and yet...

An unwanted return brought me back to the foreign that's currently temporarily home, though the only aspects of home this place truly embodies happen in the presence of the lovely friends I've made, and also, alongside a really really good cup of coffee. Those moments are more fleeting. After settling in in a distant sort of way, I retrieved my favorite pen and held it against my foxy black notebook; a slim ribbon holds the page and the entire package screams "I mean business." That's what I am hoping will follow the writing down. Meant Business.

On a day distant from now, a stranger sitting to my left on a plane in the air will ask me what business I am in. This distant exchange will feel strangely familiar, and I will have an eloquent answer that sounds something like what's been written on the pages of the black notebook with the juicy gel ink pen currently residing in my right corduroy jacket pocket.

'we'll see', still, and good.

I am beginning to think there's no such thing as backwards in life. It's one of the things I have feared most. My view gets brighter at the thought of moving forward, moving, always headed ahead, not not not behind. The thing about change and nomadic tendencies is that you'll eventually get to a, "what's next," point in time. It's always a possibility, but a steady paying job accompanied by a lease and/or a mortgage makes it less likely, and more of an obstacle than an inevitability.

In my case, it's an inevitability.

A friend of mine told me on the telephone the other day that I don't need to be pushed, or nudged. I am capable of making decisions. I, rather, need a spark. Sparks are harder to come by than pushes. There's always pushy people to run to along the way, and pushy people usually like telling you what you should do. That's one of the things that make them pushy. Sparks are more elusive.

So when looking forward, all directions are a possibility. The person that's looking ahead is different than the person that was looking ahead months ago; pushing oneself into change makes that, too, an inevitability. The lens through which I see the world is now wider. Necessary routes to happiness have become more refined.

I've spent some time taking stock of things, and am ever aware of what I don't want. I don't want the suburbs. I don't want to be a server. I don't want to find my identity through what I do. I don't want artificial relationships. I don't want fail at trying. I don't want to work in an office pushing papers for a cause I don't care for. I don't want a big house. I don't want to stay anywhere out of default. I don't want to spend another summer suffering through caustic humidity. I don't want to be chained down by material things. I don't don't don't don't....

...want to be so focused on the don'ts that I miss the good that sometimes hangs out in their midst.

"What's next," doesn't have to be a source of stress. I don't have to have a practical answer to give people. I can view my fickle nature as a positive, and opposed to a wild fault that needs to be tamed. Backwards and reverse? That's the language of cars, trucks, and trains. Not so much life.

moving through.

Growing up, the idea of forgiveness was instilled in my psyche. I spent most days of the week at church hearing about the forgiveness Jesus had bestowed upon us through his sacrifice. This forgiveness was a strait shot to freedom. Life was still hard, but it could only be lived fully through an acceptance of this freedom.

The gift of forgiveness came at a price, however. There was suffering involved. Jesus was scorned, ridiculed, and ultimately crucified. He was murdered in punishment for his divinity and the life he offered. He went through the ultimate pain and humiliation to offer such a gift of forgiveness. I remember a professor in one of my Bible classes in college giving such a beautiful lecture about the simplicity of the story, and the absurdity. Her conclusion rested in just how appropriate the absurdity was, and carried the idea that the only thing strong enough to answer the problem of humanity is the extreme story of Jesus' sacrifice, and the needed forgiveness that followed.

That was my first weighty introduction to the idea.

There was also an incident involving a candle holder, and my mother. Back in the late nineties, those massive candles with three wicks were a must for a woman's home decor. You could get them most anywhere, including candle parties that rocked the nation. These parties remain a phenomenon to me. There's a magazine offering something cute that you can purchase. The host gets special gifts for offering her home as a place to sell, and then those that attend choose things out of the magazine, pointing and looking and deciding, ooo-ing and awe-ing, followed by the writing of a check. A few weeks later, your order arrives in the mail.

My mother isn't one of requirement and she rarely purchases much of anything for herself. She's always giving back to everyone; her kids, her animals, her community. She had been burning one of those three wicked candles for a while, and it rested on a table in her living room, burning down atop an unassuming plate, and at other times, nothing at all, stray wax streaming onto the table like pink lava. After attending a candle party, she gave herself the grace to order the round crystal candle holder to set appropriately beneath the half burned aromatic circular piece of wax.

These were the days before ebay and online orders, so receiving a purchase in the mail carried an even weightier allure. I knew it was coming, as she told me she had ordered it. We looked for it in the mail each day, sighing a little in disappointment each day the little brown box remained absent. I remember the evening it came. She brought the box into the house with her, excited to have a little tiny something she had been wanting for quite a while. I asked if I could open it, and she obliged. She sat on the couch and watched me open the box, take out our little treasure, drop it from my hands, fall to the floor, and break into tiny non-glue-able pieces.

And then she reacted as one who watched something they had been wanting for a while fall onto the floor into pieces; She got really upset. It's a weighty progression. You see something in front of you that you've been wanting for quite some time, you get the chance to hold it in your hands and see it up close, and then, all of a sudden, it becomes completely unattainable and moves from the category of found to that of lost, just like that. It's really frustrating, especially when you're already stressed from other life things, and I was the culprit. I was careless with something that meant something to her. I should have been more careful with something so fragile.

Basically, I felt really bad. I think I may have cried. I wanted my mom to have something for herself maybe as much as she. And then, after a bit, she told me not to worry, "sis". It's just material. It can be replaced.

This is one of the things I most appreciate about my mom. This material thing, and it's ability to be replaced? She really believes it. And she had always instilled that into her children. It's just a "thing", and though things can be fun or good, they aren't as important as the people in your life, and they can always be replaced. So when she told me not the worry, "that it's just a thing that can be replaced," I knew she meant it, and with her sincerity, I remember thinking in that moment that I had gotten a taste of this thing called forgiveness.

Up until now, I had yet to lose the things in my life that I hold closest to me. Though I have left the material source where most of my friendships have bloomed, those that are true remain close, even in their absence. Two-thousand and ten marks the first time, however, that I felt the loss, the breaking-into-un-glue-able pieces, of a friendship I cared about. And with that loss came frustration, anger, hurt, and a bit of a grudge. This marked the first time I really felt the weight of how unhealthy these things can be for a person's general well being and ability to care for themselves. And in consequence, after passing through the aforementioned slew of emotions, it marks the first time that I have really felt the weight that's lifted when forgiveness is bestowed. It's as if the bitterness and anger leave a dirty wax-like residue over all parts of life, and the negative feelings permeate all of the good you try to pursue in spite of them. Trying to find the good requires digging, takes so much more work than is necessary, and leaves gunk underneath your fingernails. Fully moving through the detestable, fully letting go and forgiving gets you out of your own way, allowing the heat from the needed sun to melt the layers of wax.

A co-worker said that for him, it was more of a letting go. And that's part of it, plus a little more. What's left for me is a new season, a weightier from-the-gut appreciation for forgiveness, and untainted autumn sunshine.

needs, etc.

Air, water, food, and shelter. That’s what they told me I needed in elementary school. This knowledge was attained in any other fourth grade lesson provided to my classmates and I by Mrs. Nold. I guess fourth grade was the time educators assumed you would begin looking outside of the realm of your parents, and that needs may someday need to be attained, and won’t always just be there for you to wake up to.

I imagined these things in a primitive fashion, as the idea of only basic needs being met was primitive to me. I mean, we didn’t have much, our couches didn’t match, our kitchen sink was plastic for a while, and carpet was sort of a luxury, BUT we did have couches, and sinks, and un-carpeted floor.

The basic home in my childish mind, based on primitive elemental needs, was made of mud bricks. Shelter. You’re in the middle of no where, all you have is your hands and basic tools fashioned from rocks and stones, so where do you get your walls for this shelter that will pair nicely with the water you will find and the berries you will eat? Dirt, mud, sun, stacked, and there you have it: shelter.

In my past mid-west life these needs were attained on my own accord.

Air was prevalent.

I signed a year lease, which meant my landlords paid for my water. I think I got the better end of the deal on that one. It was a garage apartment, and I don’t think things in the realm of pipes and wiring and plumbing and meters were completely separate. I paid them a monthly fee, and included in this agreement was the price of all of the water I was capable using.

Food wasn’t very difficult to come by either. While working at palace cafe, I could consume all of the soup and bread that my body could handle, and I could handle a lot of tomato bisque. A six inch vegetable subway sandwich put me back $3.26, and a breakfast bagel could be consumed for under that.

My shelter was more than mud. but not much. Home was one large room, a little kitchen that, regrettably, rarely got used, and an even littler bathroom.

And yet, despite my basic needs being met, there was still cause to leave. I chose to go the route the offered the most flexibility. Basic needs, nowadays, come with commitment. You want to live here, and find shelter? Totally fine. We’ll need you to sign a lease, though. You can totally have some water, too. But you’ll have to pay your water bill, of course. This will, consequently, alter the amount of income you will need to make, which means the consumption of water has a direct impact on where you will need to work, and consequently, your daily life. And unless you plan on spending your time gardening, food is going to cost you, too. But you’ll get a steal of a deal on the air thing. That’s totally on us.

My basic needs are all now provided by others, and nothing of me has anything to do with their daily acquisition. I breathe this very air because of my host’s hospitality. Their water is filtered, somewhere around forty-three times. There is constantly food to be found. And my room is above the second floor, which rests above the basement. All of this space comprises my shelter.

My basic needs are being provided, in abundance, by others. And yet, still cause to leave.

I listened to a pod cast on NPR a month or so ago that spoke of scientific and physics based truths that us writers and laymen like to take out of their context and apply to the mundanity of life. One is the idea that we aren’t of consequence, or special, and no other place on Earth is really any better than any other place in the galaxy. The Mediocrity Principle. The man being interviewed said that once he learned of this truth, a weight of pressure was lifted from his being.

His step father had always been fascinated with the symphony, and always dreamt of living in New York City. He packed up his family, transported them to the other side of the country, and lived out a dream-like disaster. Everyone suffered. The Mediocrity Principle meant, to the step-father’s son, that finding the perfect place was a futile endeavor, and all of our grandiose notions about places we’ve never been are only notions, nothing more, because nothing is any better than anywhere else.

This is why Physicists are likely annoyed when we do this: scientific physical principles don’t transfer seamlessly to the impractical human being. I simply don’t agree with the stepson. And that’s where I find myself. My basic needs are met, and I genuinely agree that happiness can be found anywhere, in a variety of circumstances.

But the rest of the forth grade lesson, I think, goes something like this:

Students! Quiet! Listen! Take notes! Now that I have gone over your basic needs, I would like to explain a little more. You are all different, and you will find varying levels of shelter to be more suitable. Some of you will like to share shelter with a lot of other people, and some others will only be okay with being the solo occupant of your space. Some of you may even want to invite some kind of animal to live with you, and you will be required to leave your space from time to time and take this animal you have chosen for a walk. Some of you may find that dancing brings you joy, so you may want to find your shelter near places where you can partake in this activity. A lot of space may be one of your living requirements, so some of you may need to spend more time working and gaining an income that affords you this luxury. Also, some of you may actually enjoy building this shelter, and being involved in the process. The process may be a nightmare to others, so don’t worry. You can find places that are already made. Some of you may even be lucky enough to find someone of like mind that will help you figure all of this stuff out. If you don’t, it’s okay too. You may prefer making decisions on your own. Oh, and there’s not a handbook or protocol. If they tell you otherwise, or say anything about a standard course of action, they’re lying. Tune them out. Along the way, you may find yourself in a shelter that’s unsuitable, but don’t worry. Life is full of possibility, and things can always change. Class dismissed.

political fables.

This is kind of fun.

I am living in Washington DC. I am not political. Washington DC is the political center of the US. People that LOVE politics, policy, foreign relations, ISSUES of all kinds...they come here.

At a party I attended Saturday evening I was literally, at one point, the only person in the room that was not a fellow. And I am not talking about fellow as in gentleman, or beau. I mean a fellow for a trust, a position that they likely attained because of a masters degree that specialized in an issue that would, somehow, complement the trust that brought them on board.

In the other room was a young lady that had received some kind of award (they usually offer two per state), and she works in the office of DC education chancellor. A little political trivia for you, in case you are blind to the political workings of the district, like I was before arriving: The Chancellor has done, some would say, some astonishing things for the school district, and along the way, has upset many...I think she may have gotten rid of some teachers or something...an act that may have been seen as necessary in the long run but disrupted the immediate lives of some. Anyway, DC is an incredibly democratic district. Here, the primary vote is the vote because there aren't even enough republican votes to nominate a republican primary for mayor. The mayor appoints the chancellor, and said mayor that appointed the current chancellor just got voted out of office. Apparently, he was arrogant and somewhat full of himself. That's what I've heard anyway. This means the chancellor may be out too. The incoming mayor has blatantly not been a fan of her actions. Her future is a little up in the air.

Some of the other party goers, they speak other languages. Mandarin and Arabic, specifically. I caught a ride home from an environmental engineer that works for the EPA. Her husband works for the Navy as an engineer and can't actually tell her what he does. When asked, the most she gets out of him is, "If you only knew".

My arrival here in this governmental-political-environmental-energy-not-for-profit-fellowship-appointed-mecca was a little less informed, more experimental, and open ended. I find all of this fascinating, to a point. It's interesting in theory, and I feel privileged to be getting such an education, one that wouldn't be attained so thoroughly simply through residing in the place, I presume, anywhere else in the country.

The "to a point" part of the interest indicates that I will make an exit. The first few months here were, honestly, quite difficult. Frustration came from throwing this active creative into a sauna of a place where waywardness is frowned upon, the account of just where you went to school is important, and the the humidity is so thick that leaving the house is hard enough and running in it is more like a fable, which goes something like, "in the heat and humidity, the dear runner left the house daily to run in the caustic temperature and moisture and it was joyous and grand and she felt like it's right where she should be, and then she lived happily ever after, running along into the sun, the end".

But the first few months are over, adjustments have been made, and the second half will be much, much more enjoyable, filled with autumn runs, dinners with new friends, wine education, consumption, and the appreciation of growth through change. This is not a fable.

Nor is the fact that our vice president is driven to work each morning that he's here in a motorcade, with sirens and lights and fake psych you out black vehicles featuring black tinted windows.

sparkle.

There's so much wisdom to be gained from a decision, but it filters down in in layers, and seasons, and full understanding takes time; sometimes years.

We are making our way through the year, already having passed the half-way point. The beginning for me held extremes, of which I am grateful. There was training, which included extensive runs, while preparing to leave a nest wedged cozily into a sturdy Tulsa tree, and a falling; for what, I do not know. I only know that there was one, and in relation to the consequences that came from conscious decisions made, the landing itself was painful. I think painful landing was a the decisions pre-requisite. It's lessons are filtering down, in layers, and the understanding is taking time; will likely take years.

My friend Bruce would have told me all of that, I believe, had we had the time. When I told him of my upcoming adventure, and all of its branches, his eyes sparkled with excitement for me. Nodding his head in affirmation, he coined the phrase that will always belong to him, telling me to "turn up the volume." That's the truth that filtered down to him, after years of risky decisions made. He told me briefly of some consequences, even of some regret, but those truths didn't alter his life's sentiment. I would propose that the pain and difficulty, the confusion and guilt, self-deprecation and doubt, that are often consequent of risky decisions? Making your way through those things makes the sparkle brighter.

Before leaving, he let me know he was free, and that the doctors had told him it was gone. He had made the decision to cut off his long silver pony-tail months prior, before the effects took hold and took it from him. He was going to beat that, too. His look was different. Had you asked me before, I would have said that the ponytail added to his essence, and was a part of all the things that made up such a human as him. Funny thing though: When it was gone, he was still Bruce, and the sparkle was still there.

And now that I have the eyes to see, and am coming out of the difficulty of risky decisions made, I would say that the sparkle came from what he continued to make it through. It was made brighter because of the traveling through consequence, and the coming out on the other side. I would imagine that when I told him of my upcoming risks and falls, somewhere in the back of his head, he was aware of the difficulty I would face. And yet he encouraged me anyway, without warning, wanting my sparkle to get brighter from the working through, too.

I learned of Bruce's passing via the web a little over a month into my journey. He had beat it, the journey of cancer. And that, to me was the right answer, and a sense that the universe had literally made a mistake ensued. People often say things like, "he had lived a good life, it was his time, he was in a lot of pain, etc." A gut wrenching NO was the reaction to that sentiment. He wasn't finished, and the sparkle was genuinely extinguished too soon.

My heart sometimes feels like a little league coach, edging me on, pushing me further, and after sliding into base with a skinned up knee and bruised upper thigh, it gives me a hearty pat on the back! "Good job kid," both Bruce and my heart would say. Turning to look, my response goes something like, "ouch, that hurt." They look at me knowingly. "Of course it did," they would respond. "Why the heck didn't you TELL me IT WAS GOING to HURT?" "We wanted to see you slide," they respond. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Keep going."

a long batter story, revised and revisited.

: : : disclaimer : : :

This is actually a post I wrote while living for a summer in South Korea! Since I know some of my readers are new and likely haven't gone back and read every post in my blog's history, I am reposting this one. I made some changes to enter it in a writing contest, so if you think you've read it, technically, you haven't. And fear not. It is being read and edited by my talented copy editor of a cousin, so if there are mistakes they will be remedied before it's mailed.

Food seems to be the most consistent memory, the element that anchors the past days of life with all that come after. My love affair with pancakes started early, and helped begin my life's list of memories. Looking back at my childhood table, I can still see the glass bottle labeled "Griffins", with stray syrup streaming down the side. The same stray stream would end up on the plate, the table, and my hands. Breakfast for dinner was, and still is, a favorite. Part of the appeal is the shroud of rebellion. It’s supposed to be breakfast, not dinner; Consuming it out of its intended order is something wrong that feels so right. Shortly after the beginning of the pancake tale, memories of sitting at my grandma’s kitchen table arise, and I see my childhood self staring up the walls smeared with ornate wallpaper, my hands resting on her plastic gingham table cloth, waiting with great anticipation for the circular goodness she was tending in the skillet, making with love, for me.

Somewhere close to the time when my age hit double digits, I began to take the pancake matter into my own hands. An innately early riser and the first one up on Saturday mornings, pancakes continued to find relevance in my life. I remember studying my father's effortless pouring of pancake batter onto a sizzling griddle, from a mix that only required the ability to read, measure milk and crack an egg. This would have been one of my earliest “I can do that myself” affirmations, and came forth around the beginning of adolescent independence. I no longer needed someone else, namely an adult, to make something of value present in my morning.

Smashed in the middle of adolescence striving for adulthood, I was invited on a road trip to South Carolina over spring break. This kind of trip is a right of passage for college freshman, and was, appropriately, a turning point for my pancake story. The more southern of the Carolinas was home to a friend, and much of our trip was spent at her house. For me, that meant much of the trip was spent in the kitchen with her mother. Exposure to a new way of doing something you've been doing so ordinarily for so long adds a vibrance that has previously been missing. Mrs. Blees put strawberries in her salad, cut up fresh pineapple instead of canned, and added oatmeal to her pancakes. As if that wasn't enough, she paired her from scratch pancakes with homemade orange syrup. This pairing, whole grain oatmeal pancakes with tart orange syrup tasted and looked like something out of Martha Stewart Living. I scribbled her recipe down and tucked it into my suitcase. I was the same teenager that arrived a few days prior, but having driven myself across half the country, I was a teenager that felt more aware of her capabilities, in both life, and pancakes.

My early twenties consisted of testing those very capabilities. They were quintessentially awkward; Both my twenties, and the pancakes that made their way to my early twenties tables. There were the South Beach Pancakes, which had both oatmeal and cottage cheese in the recipe. During my no dairy coupled with no friends phase, I made for myself light and fluffy soy pancakes most nights of the week, which were usually covered in sugar-free syrup. Awkward is probably an understatement, but regardless of their ingredient or intended purpose, pancakes were faithful, and chivalrous.

Leaving behind the sunshine state enabled me to leave behind my pancake wrong turns. I headed home, to reconnect with tradition, and reaffirm what I knew to be true. Many a Saturday, my roommates and I could be found on our front porch, leaves swaying in the wind, with a pancake breakfast before us. The chosen syrup on my more adult less awkward table was now real maple, but I still didn't discriminate what had made up my beginning. Most Sunday mornings I could be found at the breakfast table of my parents, alongside my grandparents, eating whole wheat pancakes prepared for me by my father and listening to stories I had already heard but knew I would one day miss. The pancakes were still made from a mix, but had changed from buttermilk to whole grain. It seems my parents pancake taste refined over the years too, though the syrup was still Griffins.

Going with the theme of testing capabilities, the summer of two-thousand-and-eight found this mid-westerner living in South Korea. The traditional breakfast fare on the Korean table threatened to bring my pancake journey to an abrupt halt. There were mixes at the grocery store, but my inability to speak or read the language left me confused and insecure; my grocery bag was usually filled with cereal, eggs, and bread. I began to genuinely miss, dare I say long for, a plate stacked with the circular deliciousness that had always been so easily attained in every other corner of my story.

Because of our history and their ever consistent presence in my life, I have always felt a sort of distinguished kin-ship with flapjacks. They have served me well, and in one humble form or another, proved to be unwavering. That is why I approached, with seriousness, a trip to Butterfinger Pancakes in the city of Seoul one month into my Korean stay. It was not just a trip in search of breakfast. It was a journey. And due to the fact that my fellow pancake soldiers didn't know exactly where the shining establishment was located, and were following directions written by someone with pancake batter for brains, it became more like a quixotic pilgrimage. We were so, so hungry. I mean really hungry. We were searching for the iron griddle on empty stomachs. Our appetites had to be wanting, we told ourselves. We also weren't planning on getting lost. After a subway ride, followed by a walk in one direction that was followed by one in the opposite, multiple trips to the same street and multiple attempts at asking for directions, and also the passing of an hour and a half, we found access to our generation's savior: the internet, and consequently, our destination. The result? A conquering sense of bliss.

There was a wait of fifty minutes. We would have waited longer. The menu was thorough and beautiful, on a laminated legal sized menu of brown craft paper, with bent corners and daring pancake concoctions (stuffed mozzarella and tomato, anyone?) and endless breakfast options, covering both sides of the page. I decided on the blueberry right after reading the “none of our fruits are canned” disclaimer at the bottom. One could find irony in the fact that they, as relayed to me by the kind Korean waitress, “run out of blueberry”. I ate, with a noble amount of devotion to the cause, every single bite and scrap and crumb of the harvest grain and nut pancakes I settled with.

I sat back in the chair of our high top table, looking at the sleek interior of the pancake house, and at the empty plates of my equally stuffed friends, and I was thankful to have people in my life that also get what is so very great about pancakes, as it felt like a validation of my history. I was even more thankful that they did not yield when faced with obstacles, like hunger and confusion, but endured and pressed on, like true pancake knights.

a twitch.

As if I hadn't engaged in enough change already. That's the sentence fragment I shall begin with.

DC has been kinder to me these past few weeks, and I have been kinder to myself. In the midst of all of this kindness, my thoughts have kept their place in my head, and most recently, took their place in conversation with the best kind of friend a thinker could have; Consequently, they haven't made their way to this whimsical little corner of my life.

In the meantime, I have been engaging with, as the beginning fragment would indicate, yet more change. The tangible reaction to this would be my left eye, which voluntarily twitches in reaction. It reminds me often that I frequently ask too much of myself, all the while telling myself I am still not doing enough, still feeling stuck in between worlds of adolescence and adulthood, with characteristics of each phase littered throughout my life.

One of the best, as mentioned earlier, came to visit this past week. It was the run-up to her twenty-seventh birthday, which indicates the completion of her twenty-seventh year, and we spent a good deal of conversational energy hatching at our paths and life's direction. After perusing through pictures of a high school friend on the web, with his wife and three kids in check and a very adult-like existence, insecurity about what has yet to be accomplished inevitably rises to the surface.

After finishing my Sunday morning coffee multiple metro stops from home, as well as some changes to a blog post about pancakes I am entering in a creative non-fiction writing contest, and re-entering the house I left earlier in search of the previously mentioned coffee, I joined the company of three adults, two dogs, two bottles of wine and a tray of cheese. Among the adults was the general manager of the premiere sea food restaurant in DC. One of the two dogs belonged to her, as well as a listening ear. As I tried my best to articulate my direction-challenged-direction, and the possibility of another country in my future, her response was that of agreeability and the admonition that, "You're young! You can still do those things!".

This sentence comes in the midst of my self-reprimanding attitude, and the fact that my life fails so completely at resembling the life of an adult. And the adults are telling me to keep it that way.

A year ago, I went to visit the same friend that's presence was so helpful and kind this past week. Her sentence to me last August of two-thousand and nine: "What you're doing there in that place, working your job and living in your little garage apartment and spending time with the good people in you're life? It's fine! But if you're doing the same thing at this time next year, I will kill you. Fast-forward to the time she speaks of, and you have now. I am in fact not doing the same thing, which means I get to keep my life. Her newest sentence to encapsulate my existence: "You're doing okay, kid."

And in light of the kindness I have been bestowing upon myself, I have to agree. If only I could get someone to convince my left eye.

going...somewhere.

It takes little to thrill me.

At work, toward the end of sunny days, I get a little jazzed at around six-thirty in the evening. It's the time of night, this time of year, where the sun starts to cast the most beautiful shadows. It's also the time of night when we have to close the shades a bit, as the beautiful sun often angles itself at eye level of the guests aware enough to choose the window seats. When the shades are up, and I get to see the shadows I love, my step bounces a bit, and my interior smiles.

With this tendency, this ability to really get all up in arms about the mundane, is a keen ability to flutter around, simply enjoying. This is truly a gift, I think. But, when it comes to doing things, my ability to just breeze through has the tendency to breeze over direction; Accomplishment isn't a familiar word in my vocabulary. Indecision is my vocabulary's best friend.

"What does she want to do, though," he asks. "Ha ha ha," followed by a wayward giggle, is the response.

Though I am not magnetized toward the metal of accomplishment, there are things I would like to do, and accomplish. Sitting in the corner, with brightly lit windows in front of me, and change all around me, I am realizing the value of what it is I have done, and the somewhat shaky, around the bend steps I have taken. A strong step in one direction would have been false, as would inaction, and the act of taking no steps at all.

But the step I took was wrought with enough awareness to choose the window seat. I am looking out over ambiguous opportunity and rays of possibility, with my feat more prepared to step, one in front of the other, in front of the other.

With all of this possibility is the reality that the answer to the question and what I want to "do" still takes the recipient in multiple directions. "Weelll, a little of this with some of this and she'd also like to do some of this with that." My decision to go, arrive, meet, try, interview, and start has made the possibility of this and that more likely, yes. But it also means that, like much of life, I must be patient with the not sure. I don't have a solid answer to give people, and I don't have a clear plan for what the coming months hold.

It's the life-long exercise in being comfortable with the unknown, and patient and accepting with what is. Which brings me back to the beginning, where the ability to find thrill in very little is more appropriate than ever, and serves to enhance, like real maple syrup, rather than distract, like scrambled eggs covering up burnt toast.

I am going to enjoy the pancakes and maple syrup of change from the window seat with the sun in my eyes, and look forward to going, well, forward, albeit in the company of shadows.

tasty things.

It's been record hot here, and nearly everywhere else. My friends in Tulsa have been recording what feels like 120°. What? And please don't ask me to prove this or provide credible evidence, but one of my co-workers told me the other day that Russia has been swept with record high heat as well. I don't like it at all.

So I became facebook friends with a friend of a friend a week or so ago. I didn't know this person, but she had met and liked a couple of people that I love, so when she told me she was new to the area too, and would I like hang out sometime, um..."yes," I said. Confirmed.

My new facebook friend that is now my new real life friend came into the city last night to run some errands, and so we met and had dinner. I help people with this simple little act multiple evenings a week. I have a station filled with tables, and couples or groups or parties of two will walk in, sit, sometimes order drinks...I tell them the specials, and they spend the remainder of their time, most of the time, sharing conversation and story over a meal. Oh how I love this act. The process of a meal, fit with desired company and interesting honest conversation is one of my very favorite things. I genuinely enjoy serving tables that know how to enjoy its process, and genuine enjoyment comes from an appreciation of the food and the company. It's been kind of a tease for me, regularly helping people with one of my very favorite things without getting to experience the process for myself much at all.

I do not concede completely. I still go out and have dinners alone, annoyingly engaging my server as much as I can. And though a meal with myself is genuinely a lovely experience, one that a friend of a friend has referred to as "liberating," it's not the same as one with company.

Last night's dinner was one of those simple things that, because of my decision to uproot, I have really, really been missing. To say that I enjoyed my meal, fit with interesting conversation, sipped drinks, culminated with savored dessert, would be an extreme understatement.

One of our conversation topics was the ever cliche weather. We didn't discuss that of Russia, but my facebook-real-life-friend had lived in Seattle, and one of the things she relayed were its "awful summers". Wha? Waaaiiiit a minute. That's something I think Seattle has in it's corner..."It never gets really hot there, you know?" Yes. I know. And I like. "I went swimming maybe twice...I am used to Oklahoma summers, and I like for there to be a season of some almost unbearable heat." Eeek.

What makes some people love a place may turn someone else off. I explained to her that I like to be able to run outside all year long, and the unbearable heat we have experienced here makes it difficult for me to want to leave the house. "Seattle would be great for that," she said.

We have this dish at Posto, where I work, called "mezzeluna". I get quizzed on it regularly, before my shift. It's half moon shaped pasta stuffed with pancetta and stracchino cheese...tossed in a light olive oil white wine sauce...and finished with english pea, tomato concasse, and finally, black olive. There are some people that order it simply because of the last ingredient. They will order almost anything because it's finished with olives. I loathe olives. Their taste causes the gag reflex in the back of my throat. I've ordered the mezzeluna before, and I asked my server to have the olives left in the kitchen.

This contrast, like a shared meal, is also one of my very favorite things. My facebook-real-life-friend made her way here for a job, having just finished attaining a masters degree. I made it here as something more of an experiment, with sort of direction but more ambiguity that anything. She likes the heat I have trouble bearing. Some people like olives, others are vegan, steak eaters, liberals, democrats, moderate conservatives, day-time professionals, night-time professionals, decaf drinkers, religious fanatics, coffee haters, and somewhere in the mix of all of that, people find a way to enjoy meals, company, and conversations, despite, and sometimes because of, differing tastes and opinions.

Cheers to enjoying something simple you've been missing, and to someone doing something different than you, and it being okay.

class, endless class.

When I arrived back in Tulsa in the fall of two-thousand and eight, after attempting to teach english in South Korea, I was itching to escape. I felt like I was going in reverse, and conjured up numerous ways in my head to get out before it was too late. I had to move out of my lovely old house a few months after returning, and I didn't really have anywhere concrete to go. It was around the holidays; My friend Chris took me in for a few weeks, and I stayed on another friend's couch when she left to visit her boyfriend's family for Christmas. And then, sometime shortly after Christmas, I moved into the house of my late great grandmother. I had my own room, and shower, and also, two jobs. I was baking and working at a coffee shop, two of the most early morning jobs one could come up with. It was a rather unenjoyable combination, leaving me quite exhausted. I began to crave a space of my own, somewhere marked by simplicity and ease, and I found a nice little space in a nice old neighborhood that proved to be just that.

The price tag I thought I could do. The lease was the more uncomfortable option for me to reason through. I would have to stay a year, they said. This means twelve months in a row in the same place. I looked around at the little kitchen with black and white floors, fixing my eyes on the spotty red-orange paint job attempting to cover the walls, and the notion of fleeing...Fled. The lease was a piece of cake to sign, and this over thinker of most everything capable of being thought of didn't have to think much about signing the line at all. In the back of my foggy brain, somewhere, I knew this year in this place, both the concrete former garage floors covered with carpet, and the city known as Tulsa, would be vital for years to come. And so, once again, I summoned my father, his truck and trailer, and made the little space something of an oasis, all my own, and began to feel excitement about the coming year.

The excitement was valid; It was truly a great year. My cup overflowed. And that's what I was leaving behind when I came to this place. A year of growth, confidence, encouragement, companionship...Life was plush.

The thing about places like that is that they change, whether you leave or stay. Friends that added to the wonderful canvas will move, marry, and make changes of their own. I wasn't tempted by the goodness of my year to stay; But rather, I was tempted to believe more in myself, and my ability to find goodness wherever I chose to roam.

So that's what I did. Packing up my little apartment was the first leg of letting go. I put things in boxes, gave stuff away, brought in reinforcement to leave it as clean as could be, and then I cried, after handing over the key. I drove to my new little temporary home in the basement of a house, with boxes piled in the back seat, and I just let the tears fall. I followed the tears with work, and distracted myself with tasks. My walls turned mango madness, and I turned my sights to what was in front of me, which wouldn't be for much longer. All of this gave more weight to my beliefs; My thoughts about life and about what we can do with it became only stronger.

And then I left in a frenzy, jumbled it up with "a run into my future", and plopped myself into the foreign, and got all clammy. Really! Clammy! If I was an animal when I left, I'd maybe have been a zebra...Something confident and valiant, odd and okay with it. Somehow I transformed myself into a clam! Sheepish, anxious, and inadequate. Who is this person I am waking up to in the mornings?! I don't recognize her! AAAaaaaa! What is happening here?

So what I didn't realize is that not everything transfers, like those blasted credits and classes you have to RETAKE when you switch universities. YOU'VE already taken them, with the SAME book. "Sorry," the dean says. "They didn't transfer." "What do you mean they didn't transfer?! I've already learned this stuff." "You learned it somewhere else. Now you have to learn it here."

So that's what I am doing now. I am retaking confidence 101, philosophy, and style, and a great course about relearning the art of solitude. I have managed to fall in love with the white chair in the corner of my room, which is my newly adopted oasis, and today, I wore my yellow tights. I signed up for a wine class that starts in September, so I will be adding a few new lessons too. I am also, frankly teaching myself how to eat again. Luckily the coffee credit transferred seamlessly, as is evidenced by the empty macchiato cup to my right.

sunrise, sunshine.

When I was little, I would wake at seven on Saturdays, before the rest of my family, beginning my day with the company of Zach and Kelly and Screech and the rest of Saved by the Bell's cast. A few years later, once I had discovered cooking, I would start the pancakes, again, before the rest of my family rose. I am one of those morning people; I love waking with the day. There's something inherently beautiful in the process of sleeping, closing out the past, and waking with newness, and with possibility. And that's what I see when I am out and about at a day's beginning. There's something raw and lovely about bumping into people in the waking hours, when they are just starting too, and a day's direction can go so many different ways.

Since being here, however, I have closed the book on mornings. I open the pages, read the first few lines, and then slam it shut, eventually waking chapters later. When I very first arrived here, I think it was because I was genuinely exhausted. There was the time change I had to deal with, I'd just ran a really long distance, the distance's training had imposed a lot of stress on my body, and in the midst of all of that, I had packed up my life and left most of it behind. I needed to rest, I didn't have any where to be, and so I used the mornings to catch up.

A little later, I found employment at a restaurant. Said restaurant is only open for dinner, and most of the evenings I work, it closes at ten-thirty in the evening. This is not too late, though it used to be my bedtime. By the time I leave, it's usually eleven...I wait on the bus...get off the bus...walk the block home...and by the time I have finished all of the evening's necessary tasks, it's rarely earlier than one in the morning. At seven, when I would like to be up for the day, I am still. sound. asleep.

And this makes me feel like I am truly missing out.

So this week I decided to implement some goals. Goal one: drink more water. I bought a re-usable water bottle. It's working. Goal two: Get up at eight. I down loaded an alarm onto my I-Telephone. I set it. Monday, I shut it off. And then I shut it off again. And then I got up at nine, patting myself on the back because I had risen before time reached double digits. And then, around the time that time reached double digits, I needed a nap, like the way a nursing baby neeeeeeds it's mother's breast. I was sitting, and my eyes literally started to shut. I stopped what I was doing, and I went back to sleep. This was an epic get-up-early-and-don't-waste-the-day fail.

I eventually made it to work, and started being productive at around four in the afternoon. My friend Angela works the same hours as I, and she still gets up early. It can be done. When she suggested, on my laziest of days, that we have coffee in the morning I said, "YES!" Incentive. It's helpful.

I made it home after work, well rested, and turned off the lights before one. Before falling asleep, I set my alarm for seven-thirty, feeling hopeful. Beep beep beep...snooze....beep beep beep...snooze...and then, at 7:50...BEFORE EIGHT...I plunged myself from the sheets. Success!

Near unbearable heat and humidity were predicted by the weather man, so I slipped on my cut-off shorts, tank-top, and sandals...washed the night off of my face, and left the house for the metro.

So this is a long story, I know. I usually take the long way around to say the simplest things. So there you go. The simple thing I am trying to say is that this was the FIRST morning since being here that I have left the house before nine to get on the metro during the work week. I am a different kind of professional. My profession is the kind that makes their way to work when the rest of the world is still closing things up at the office. Because of this, I don't usually bump into the office crowd...at least not until seven or so, when they make their way into the restaurant, and I serve them dinner.

Walking along the sidewalk, I see the heals, the collars, and brief-cases, and the march. It's not a stroll. They are going somewhere, with intention; There is a fervor in each step. On most days most people ride the escalator all the way down, underground. I like moving, and walking, and so I am usually only one of a few walking down the escalator, passing the escalator standers to my right. This morning, however, the standers were in the minority. I follow my fellow walkers down the moving stairs, and make it to where the trains converge. Upon the platform, I feel like I have entered a cloud of pastel collars and black pencil skirts. I plop myself on to train with the day-time professionals, in my cut-offs, brown attire, and flip-flops, and I stand out as if there was a stamp on my forehead. I wish, in the moment, that I had the courage to just start dancing right there, in the middle of the train, as I try to keep my balance without holding onto the rail, as the train lists the tiniest bit.

We make our exits, and de-converge, as the collars and skirts make their way to their offices to make copies and send emails and add to the colorful necessary fabric of the the world's corporate political financial workforce, and I make my way to coffee, to sit in the sun and sip a latte over the colorful necessary fabric of budding friendship and conversation.

Morning, it's good to have you back.

tourist.

I have been pretty ambitious this week, making my way into the foreign, to new museums, eateries, and sections of town. I had two days off in a row, and though I dreamed of using the time off to make a short exit, looking up plane and train tickets to various stops on the map, I decided on the practical, and to spend some hours exploring the newness of my present.

On Friday I made it to the National Gallery of Art, and Saturday, a run preceded stops at some shops, a date with overdue Indian cuisine, and a foreign film titled "The Concert". So that's what I did, but what this is about has nothing much to do with my itinerary.

It's about the little boy on the subway that perfected the task of making faces at his grandpa. Grandpa looked at him, beckoning some mischievous behavior, and the three year old just punched him in a serious, I've had it with you sort of way. And then they went back and forth, giggling...grandpa acting like a kid, kid channeling grown-up.

The next train ride brought the man, sleeping in his seat, with a bouquet of flowers resting in his lap. I don't know who the lucky one was, and if it was for no reason, in celebration, or in mourning, and the man wasn't wearing a ring. But the image of the flowers in his lap was nice, and regardless of their course, so was the idea that he was thinking of someone, and that's something this world can't really get enough of.

Sitting outside of the Gap, after a thirty minute period of trying on things I'd maneuvered from the disorganized and overstuffed sales rack, I sat outside on the steps in hunger, googling a place to eat. A couple passed by, perhaps in their seventies. He was taller than she, carrying a shopping bag from Banana Republic, Gap's neighbor. They were strolling, and happened to be enjoying each other's company. I followed their trail away, and watched him lift her purse from her shoulders, to take some of the weight of her day away; She looked at him with a smile of gratitude as they walked further on.

At the movie, I sat next to a couple, who seemed to have been married for years. Their company seemed so natural and appropriate, like apples being picked from apple trees, or mellow music on a Sunday morning. I was at the movie quite early, and so privy to conversation I'd otherwise miss. They still seemed to have so much to talk about, and enjoyed listening to the thoughts of the other. This is something I think about when I think about being married for years, which in and of itself is hard for this relationship novice to imagine. It's a hope that not only will I find a someone to spend lots and lots of years with, but also someone that I won't tire of conversing with. They were a picture of this. A preview passed by that she enjoyed and she subtly said, "I'd like ot see that." He nodded, not in agreement but in recognition, and she asked, "would you like to see that one," with a tone of hope. "I would," he responded. As they exited their seat, after the film had ended, he maneuvered himself down the stairs with his cane in is right hand, her hand in his left.

A friend of mine from work gave me a blue stone, since it's the color of my eyes. It's a gratitude stone, she said, and when I reach in my pocket to get something and I feel its smooth surface, I am supposed to think about the things I am truly grateful for. I made my way home on the metro, thoughtful of the day, inspired by humanity that had been sprinkled throughout my itinerary, and by the blue stone gift I'd been given. I marveled at the weather, and what felt like a sixty-degree evening as the breeze pierced my skin.

My mind wandered to an evening with Melinda and Liz on a red couch, as we each sipped girly drinks and they gave a sermon to me of what they want me to have in my life. I thought of Aimi, and the countless times she has expressed more interest and excitement at goodness coming my way than I did. I thought a conversation with Chris a few weeks before I left, as she tried to explain how injury toward me is injury toward her, and that she feels it, too. I thought about the meal Isaiah made for me on one of my least favorite evenings, an evening that turned out to be one of the best because of his care, and because of the homemade avocado sauce deliciousness. I thought of Lindsay wanting me to hate where I am so I'd just up and move in with her, and of my Aunt Mae, who feels as if I've been gone from Tulsa for a year, though it's only been two months. I thought of the crane Mary gave to me at Melinda's wedding, speaking of adventure, and of not giving up, and of Tonia, always reminding me to give myself more grace, and credit. I thought of Pamela, my cousin and hostess, and the encouragement, challenge and friendship she has offered to me, generously, since the moment I arrived to be a guest in her house. And readers, the gratitude and the weather and perhaps the mellow music providing a most appropriate soundtrack brought tears up, welling to the surface. The rest of my walk was accompanied with a cry of gratitude, salty water streaming from my blue eyes, like the stone placed on a path of streaming water.

In light of my day and what I'd payed attention to, I wondered what passersby were thinking of this lady, walking, smiling, and crying. I hope they felt a little piece of humanity. That's what I hope.

concession.

I have been, for years, an I-Phone teaser. Not a critic. Please don't mistake. I have always thought it was a really cool piece of technology and very relevant to the lives of many. It just wasn't relevant to mine, and so I didn't have one, and therefor, wasn't caught up in the I-Phone frame of mind. This frame of mind can be seen in the eyes of someone holding their I-Phone intently, pressing things, and mostly unaware to the rest of their surroundings.

Because of this phenomenon I wasn't a part of, I made up nick names. I began to call the fabulous little device an I-Telephone. When my friends would refer to new apps they found, I would respond with looks of confusion. An App? What's that? Short for apple pie?! You can get Apple PIE from your I-Telephone?! OHHH. You mean "Application". Sorry.

A few months ago, I moved from Tulsa to another place where streets have different names and neighborhoods different themes. Before moving, I spent a week of travel, mostly alone. I turned getting lost into a hobby. I looked for a bakery in Boston long enough to have baked a thousand luscious lemon tarts for myself. By the time I made it to DC, it had gotten HOT, and the getting lost felt a lot more like a mess than an interesting adventure. My free phone from verizon, that couldn't accept pictures, much less take them, offered me no assistance. And it was defective. I would send someone a text message, and their response would take the form of a message I had sent an entirely different person months prior. With the move and changed life-scenario came the feeling like it was time for an upgrade. "Upgrade" is what they call it in the cellular telephone culture.

"On no", my subconscious thought. I may have to get an I-Telephone and become one of those people! I can't become one of those people. There are other telephones on the market, I told myself. So I looked at the Verizon Droid. Sure. That'll work.

I have a Macintosh computer whom I affectionately named Baxter, and I adore him, er, it. I haven't bestowed a name upon my I-Pod, but the affection is still there. It was the music coming from it's plastic covered body that lulled me through twenty-six miles of running in June, and countless hours of the same during the months preceding the calendar's sixth. And with these electronica thoughts came the voice of my friend Houston touting the logic of "brand loyalty" and purchasing something from a company whose products have proved themselves to you already.

And then I read a review on the I-Telephone, fit with pictures, which may have been the deciding factor. The esthetic side of my being was captured by the beauty behind the telephone's simplicity, timeless in form. The review went on to claim that it's, in their technical opinion, the best smart phone on the market.

And so, days later, I became a user. An I-Telephone user. It's been outfitted with a hand made sleeve from the ruffle I cut off of a dress that's now ruffle-less, as well as a few applications, including FIFA Soccer, entertainment for a bosses son while the adults ate chinese food and drank wine and talked about adult things.

Even without a mirror, I can recognize the glazed over look in my eye, somewhat unaware to what's going on around me, due to the I-Telephone frame of mind. That's to say, I get it. As my dear friend Aimi said, when I told her I was thinking of crossing to the other side of the telephone world, "It's life-changing, whether we want to admit it or not." And she's right. I could go on to tell stories of just how life changing it is, but there's a catch. I heard these stories from others...I sold these stories to people when I worked for Apple...and I didn't really get it until I had it in my hands, and didn't have to give it back to it's owner. So I won't bore you, and I won't tell you to go get one, either. I will just say that I am glad to be the owner of an I-Telephone, and not above getting lost in the stellar resolution of its glowing screen.

i'll take the rain.

I went on an Iranian culture kick when I lived in Florida. I read a book about the hostage takeover of the American embassy in Iran, and the 444 days that followed, which piqued my curiosity, and led me to more books in that vein. One was titled "Lipstick Jihad"; Her family had left Iran and raised her in Sunny California, in the midst of a strong Iranian subculture with Iranian food and tradition still in tact. To her sunny California friends she was Iranian. She wasn't sure who she was. She had pursued a career in Journalism, investigating things for others. When she told her family that she was going to return to Iran to live, for a time, with the family they had left behind, they didn't understand. They had chosen better for her, and brought her to a safe place, where she could grow without fear, and figure out who she was without restraint. Why would she need to go backwards, and re-claim the restraints they had spared her from?

I overheard friends talking the other day of an adopted daughter that had left her adopted family in a fit of rebellion to find who it was that had given her up.

My cousin and I were online looking up some records yesterday. You could pay forty dollars a month to have full access to a sight that will provide for you your families genealogy; your roots.

What happened? In the past? It's a natural curiosity. While running yesterday, over the headphones in my ears, I heard brakes squeal from a car nearby. I didn't keep going, but stopped what I was doing and went back, to see what had happened...What was the cause of the squeal, and the outcome?

I have this same curiosity toward the past of those that have influenced me. It's different than a genealogical curiosity...The filling in of a family tree; It more narcissistic than that. It's a desire to understand the past to better understand myself.

The past most blocked from my view has been my fathers. Much can be learned from talking to and getting to know one's siblings; My father's only brother committed suicide at the age of 23, in my dad's 18th year. I always loved meeting my friend's parents in college, seeing the source of many of their mannerisms and expressions; My grandfather died when I was three months old, and his mother when I was barely five years. Images of my grandmother consist of seventies print polyester, the aroma of stale cigarettes, and cat eye glasses. These are good images to have, but offer no insight into the shape she gave to the man I have been most influenced by.

Growing up, I made the best of what I had to work with, asking my father questions, incessantly. Who was he? How did he die? Why did you marry her? Why didn't she want him? How did it feel to be on that drug? Did you cry at your brother's funeral? Did your dad? Was your mom a good cook? His head would spin. "Damn-it Meredith. I haven't thought of most of this stuff in thirty-years", he would complain to me. "I am sorry," I would say. "But I still need the answers". And he gave them.

Exhausting my resources, I have moved on. Running a marathon in Seattle, I spent the four evenings I was there with my father's second cousin. I saw similar mannerisms, and facial structure. It was anchoring. Here in DC, I am staying with my father's first cousin, who was the best friend of his brother. She has offered me insight into his sibling, and, to the best of her ability, my overlooked father.

And separate from the family anchors, there is the place that gave him shape...The snow that fell on top of his sleeping bag while camping in the mountains as a kid, tent-less. This same snow he now loathes. The overarching pine trees, and the slopes where he perfected his, in my mind, perfect ski form. The snow below the skis is the only snow he now finds joy from. This part of the country, his part of the country, is beckoning me.

I have been to many cities. I've walked past Roman ruins, and along the water lined streets of Venice, through the height and bustle of New York City, and experienced the beauty of the Colorado Rockies. My family took me through the Grand Canyon, and I've lived along the beaches of Florida. But no city's beauty has captured me as much as that of Seattle. I can't get the images out of my head, and I have been drawn there since the Monday that I flew out.

He left this corner of the country at the age of eighteen, and hasn't often looked back. He can now be found in the middle of humidity of an Oklahoma summer, lying in the sun to soak up the heat he managed to avoid all of his first eighteen years, or in the middle of November, cursing the cold that's making its way in. And his daughter, the child that's arguably most like him, wants desperately to escape the heat, and flee to the corner he fled.

This makes him wonder, like the parents of Lip Stick Jihad, why? Why would you want to go back there? And in light of my curiosities, and desired understanding that makes its way out of the box of simple answers to historical questions, the answer for my dad is a simple how...How can I not want to go back, there, and live in the temperature and landscape and culture that has everything to do with you?