to look forward.

I am finding myself at a familiar place, full of hope and idealism, preparing to journey out of one place and into another. In the summer of two-thousand and five, I hugged my parents goodbye, hopped into my red Stratus with my cousin Sarah, and embraced my idealism and wandering spirit to live somewhere else, while Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway" played through my life's speakers.

I had finished college, and been congratulated by so many at attaining my degree. This was perplexing to me. I hadn't ever really aspired to anything, even while accumulating an immense amount of debt and spending hours studying, reading, procrastinating and stressing to finish. There were just things people did, and smart popular people that wanted to make a lot of friends and prepare a future for themselves went to college and earned a degree. If these were the possible end results of attaining a bachelors degree, sign me up. I did make the friends, I received the official framable certificate upon crossing that stage, and I most definitely learned a lot about a lot of things, as well as myself. But enlightenment into my future found it's way through halls and corridors of John Brown University without finding me.

What was left: An idealistic and seemingly strong and adventurous twenty-two year old still trying to make her way out of the bleakness of the depression that frequented the halls and corridors she did pass through in college.

I remember turning into Hunter's Ridge, the apartment complex that would be so much more than where I rested my head for the next thirteen months. I turned my right blinker on with excitement and anticipation and forgetfulness. When uprooting oneself and forcefully taking apart all of the things that are known so well for so long, it's easy to forget about the less desirables. My dad was always there to remind me that "wherever I go, I will be the first one to arrive." I knew this, but the hope that the me that arrived in Florida would be a better version of myself than the one that left? It plagued me. Though this feeling was rooted in hope, it was still a plague because it was unrealistic. It is my belief that there are raw and difficult life experiences we must live through, full of wrong turns and dirty streets, often in the midst of goodness, before we can become a better version of ourselves. Change of location is often idyllic, but it's not ever enough.

It was a year plus one month I do not wish to relive, but also, wouldn't undo. It was also a year and one month that I was more than ready to leave behind. For the first time that I could remember, I felt an ache to go backwards and return to the familiarity and ease of home. Against my usual forward momentum and innate "I can do it by myself" attitude, I payed a ridiculous amount of money to get out of my lease early, repacked all of my belongings into the same red dodge stratus, cried tears of guilt at leaving my brother behind, and made the journey back west with Pamela, a friend like no other.

Waiting for me in Oklahoma was a happy mother, a bed with clean sheets, a kitten named Murray, and looming faith questions that had began to fester and ferment in my heart and head while wading through murky Florida water. This painful doubt left such an odor that only grew more potent and debilitating in the stillness and monotony of home.

I walked into the warmth of the Sawyer's home for the first time with a social sheepishness rooted in my previous year of sadness and the heaviness of doubt. I was welcomed with nonchalance, as if, of course, I belonged there. It wasn't until after returning to this space a few more times that I marveled at this couples innate inclination to hospitality, and began to be amazed at how little effort they had to put forth to make a heavy soul feel welcome, like they belong. Not only did they welcome my person, but they also welcomed, with equally open arms, my questions. I drove home that March evening, in the red dodge stratus, a much lighter version of myself. The questions were still there, and I was still desperately in need of answers. But the space this couple and this group gave me to ask them was more than adequate to alleviate the painful part of the weight.

Back to the present: This weekend for me held an immeasurable amount of fun. Great conversation, new friends made, other friendships made stronger, wine, dancing until two in the morning, philly-cheese-steaks at three, and work just a few hours later. My nickname as a little girl? Mary-go-Jones. I want to do it all for as long as I can while having as much fun as possible. I don't neglect my responsibilities, I just set them aside until they must be attended to. Going to sleep at four only to wake at seven to serve for seven hours was painful. Taking an hour and a half long nap was almost as painful as not taking a nap at all. The nap would have been longer, had I not needed to fit a three mile run in before leaving to attend the same group at the Sawyer's I walked into three years before. I rushed out the door already late, and still in need of bread. I was awake and present because of the adrenaline of the rush...From here to there quickly after doing this that was immediately followed by that...So the heaviness of fatigue, and the weight of not being able to do anything about it walked with me up the steps of their porch, helping me raise my weighty hand to twist the gold knob on their cool green door.

And then it opened, almost magically, and the light of their home literally enveloped me in ease, as did the smiles that greeted me at the door. A few steps further, and there was Amy in her apron, a warm and comforting soup simmering on the stove, and the inevitability of thoughtful, humorous, and stimulating conversation awaiting me with many of the people I love most in the world, that would likely begin shortly after I took my soup filled seat. The effortless hospitality I had experienced three years before once again greeted my weary body, and filled me up in a way I had forgotten it could.

I marveled at this goodness at the end of the evening, and contrasted it with the excitement of the hope and idealism I mentioned back there, in the beginning of all of these words. It seems that I am possibly missing the point by choosing to leave all of this behind, especially since the year of idealism lived out in Florida turned out to be enveloped in an excessive amount of disappointment. Despite that year, or, possibly because of that year, idealism remains.

I sat, full of contentment, in the Sawyer's creaky wooden chair thinking to myself that if these are the kind of people and experiences that I find when I open myself up to change, how can I not leave, with idealistic hopes of finding so much more of this?

qypsy-like.

I made this new friend by the name of Megan. She's pretty great, though I barely know her. I know that much.

Yesterday was a day of planning. Lindsay called it when she said she felt a blog coming on. This one is going to be all over the place. It's going to be like me.

I woke yesterday morning to an apartment in chaos; boxes, glasses, get rid of piles, and things to trip on. It was all a part of my master plan to make some leeway with moving yesterday. I am not usually one of those types...The master plan types...But changes are coming, and some things need to happen first. So, I ripped off a corner of the goldenrod colored pamphlet I had received from Immanuel Baptist Church, and I wrote the following:

finances

bills

marathon

write

budget M, A, May

tickets

San Diego

LA > Louis > Boston > DC

Notice that I neglected to put "make leeway with moving stuff" on the list? I awoke this morning to the same exact chaos.

And then, I proceeded to make leeway with option three, marathon. I ran my six miles for the day, after charting out the miles I will need to accumulate over the next sixteen weeks yesterday.

I put San Diego on the list because that's where I am running the marathon, with my oldest friend Shaya who is pretty great, and also, almost all of Shaya's family. They're great too.

I didn't write, but I am doing that now. Doing the other things gave me something to write about.

The arrow goes from San Diego to LA because of Houston. He'll be the post marathon stop, and then Lindsay in New Orleans. Lindsay will hopefully lead me to Boston, to Pamela, and a few days of utter bliss, I am expecting. Pamela, the friend that helped more than anyone else spur this journey I am taking, will send me to DC, which will be my temporary home.

My new friend Megan listened to me rant about all of this excitement yesterday on the couch where I drank too much coffee and chipped away at my list. She shared it with me, the excitement, and said she may even be in the San Diego area to cheer me on that twenty-six something mile run. Then she made me listen to this song she downloaded for herself, but that she thinks sort of applies to me, too.

Yesterday when leaving my house to go to the place where I was going to get stuff done, I was on my bicycle thinking about all of the things I have to look forward to, and I labeled this year my gypsy year. I did this in my head without telling anyone else.

Sitting there on the couch the lighting was quite idyllic - yellow and still, as if I was on a couch in a movie acting out a scene that makes the audience want to climb out of their uncomfortable seats and join in on the full of life moment that was happening there, on the comfortable couch. The song was folky, and it's all I could hear. The words drifter and gypsy and the phrase stealing hearts filled my ears, as I watched beautiful people to my left converse with beautiful people on my right, and smiled a big-feeling-understood-full-of-excitement kind of smile.

I tend to befriend planners and list makers. I have friends that genuinely find their joy in marking things off their list. It's not a good day unless productivity is a part. These are good things, but they aren't me. Though I marked things off of my list, the goodness of my day came from that moment on the couch, the song shared that made me feel understood, the conversation that happened after, and the Indian Food I shared with three of my favorites later in the evening. This is why it's time for me to take this gypsy trail that's been trying to get my attention for a while now. Because I am not a planner or a list maker, and because, from a place deep inside of myself, I want my life to be full of interesting people and good coffee and great wine, and eventually, hopefully love and family, and until then, new characters that come when I open my story up to more places and more experiences, more couches, and more life.

to love.

There isn't much I expect anymore from the day of love. This is not a cynicism, really, though I am quite capable of that. It's more of a comfortability with reality. There is a cycle one gets used to after all these years, and it's not something to lament, but rather, celebrate. And that's what I do. I celebrate the love I am surrounded by.

I am not the biggest fan of weddings...The stress, planning, excess, stress, confusion, distraction from the lifelong commitment you are about to enter into, stress. But the things I love about weddings, and have always have loved about them is, well, the LOVE. These two people, whoever they are, have chosen to celebrate their love and their commitment to each other with with all of the people they love the most. Being in a few weddings has given me in insider's perspective into the amount of affection, apart from the that of the bride and groom, and it's something wonderful, celebrate-able. I remember when my friend Renee got married last January and had aunts and uncles flying in from all over to witness and be a part of the occasion. This is phenomenal to me...People loving you so much that they will disrupt their lives to be a part of the things that are important to you.

So carry over that concept to February the fourteenth. It's excessive. I don't like the pressure it puts on the couple, the man especially. I have heard many of my friends sigh in disappointment because their boyfriend or husband or fiance didn't handle it they way they wanted..."He took me to dinner but hadn't made any reservations"..."He bought me flowers, despite the fact that I always tell him I don't like getting flowers"..."I know he's really stressed, but he didn't even remember it was Valentine's Day until the fifteenth"...Um. Hello? There are many things in life worth making a ruckus about. I just don't think this is one of them. And I don't like that this arbitrary holiday that someone deemed the day in which we are supposed to let people know how we feel (as if we shouldn't always let people know how we feel) puts unrealistic expectations upon a relationship, that's full of enough complications already, so much so that we get disappointed with, and even upset, at the person we love the most.

And then, of course, there's the part I very much enjoy: The fact that I am privy to moments of love from others. Working in a fine dining restaurant on Valentine's Day is the ideal scenario for engagement with these moments. My section was upstairs, which meant in moments of in between, I was able to stop at the top of the stairs, look down at the bustle in the restaurant, and take all that crazy love in. The fact that these people went out of their way to plan a nice dinner with each other because of the love that they have, and that they were choosing to be in the company of the other...This, like the aunts and the uncles flying in for a wedding, is wonderful, celebrate-able.

I had already worked brunch that morning, serving up lovable food early in the day, and had also successfully and exhaustedly thrown a cocktail party the previous evening. These two events left very little energy in my tired being, and I wasn't sure if I had the emotional capacity to devote time and attention to couples out for a special dinner. When the boss man asked if anyone wanted to work expo (running food out to tables and preparing bread baskets, etc.) and leave early (and likely make less money) I willingly raised my hand. This also meant, if there were any walk-ins (couples that hadn't made a reservation) they would be seated in our upstairs room and given to me.

I wasn't prepared for the amount of goodness and loveliness encompassed in Elders, the lone couple that walked into my evening.

Before the Elders' entered our restaurant, I had some Valentine's Day Dove chocolate and also, a message written inside. The chocolate was milk, and the message instructed me to take five deep breaths. That was all. I tried, made it to three, and lost interest. I wondered why this Dove chocolate was giving me yoga like advice, and wasn't prepared for the help it would be later on, after the Elders' exit.

They were in their sixties, I suppose, and requested the vegetarian menu. "If it has eyes", they said, "we don't eat it". They also referred to me as Meredith the entire evening, and joked with me as well. After the eyes comment, the male Elder made a corny joke about how they don't even eat potatoes, as the spots on them look too much like eyes. Serving people for a living can be very demoralizing. You are there to get them things, and they don't typically show concern for the name your parents gave you. The Elders' called me by name, invited me into their humor, and appreciated every bite of their meal. These things set them apart. She really appreciated that the chutney on the corn pancakes was tart rather than too sweet, and their entrees were both so delicious that they couldn't choose one as the best...She shared a bite of her salad with her husband before she had even taken a bite, and it was so enjoyable that she wanted to save it to eat with her meal. Her entree was enjoyed with thought and care, and she had the excess boxed up so she could thoughtfully and carefully enjoy some dessert; Somewhere during some course, it was as if I stopped serving them and they started serving me.

By the end of the meal, they had, quite literally, made my Valentine's Day. After I left them with their last refill of decaf coffee, I let them know this. They sipped their coffee, enjoyed their final moments in the upstairs room, signed their bill, and let themselves out. When I returned to the room, after clearing their dessert plates, they were gone. I picked up the check, read the personal "thank you, Meredith" that they had left on the receipt and the abundant tip they had left for me, and that's the moment I hadn't prepared for. The tears came out, with full force, and I couldn't seem to get them to stop. I was crying because of tiredness, and also, because I was able to serve two people that were still, after many years of marriage, clearly crazy about each other, and allowed me to share that with them. I am an idealist, and though I have come across many unhappy couples on my life's journey, I don't believe unhappiness or discontentment is inevitable. My aunt and uncle, two of the most influential people in my life, celebrated sixty-five happy years together last week. This is something I am holding out for, and when I come across two people, like the Elders, that prove my philosophy and belief, which is anchored in lofty hopes and expectations, is quite possible, I am moved to tears...Deep seeded tears.

So there I was, alone in the upstairs room, crying myself to craziness. I am a problem solver, and I was quickly trying to problem solve myself out of this extremely emotional moment that was coming at a really inopportune time, as I wasn't done working, and the restaurant beneath me was still full to the brim of smiling happy people and echos of laughter. There were also still dishes to be put away and food to be ran to these happy laughing tables, and the unstable girl upstairs by the name of Meredith was going to have to find a way to pull it together, quickly. After about a minute of tears, and resting my hand on the edge of the chair for stability, I remembered my Dove Chocolate of wisdom, and took advantage of the yoga advice I had been disappointed by earlier.

I walked to the corner toward the light and closed my eyes. I breathed in, and then out, and then did that four more times. Tears in check, I walked downstairs, retrieved the blue plastic container of dishes off of the top of the dish rack and carried the container of glasses to the server's room. I put away the glasses, which were still covered in tearlike water droplets from the wash, with thoughtfulness and care.

change, beautiful change.

I came into the world during the month that proclaims itself to be the most unique. It possesses less days than any other, even on the years when it holds an extra day. I have always been happy about this fact, as if it's uniqueness has something to do with me, or the other way around. Though this is factually untrue, it somehow brings me a renewed sense of individuality when I am having an average, inconsequential sort of day.

This year, this month holds more change than simply the number I give when I say my age. And since I am a big fan of change, the seconds month's strangeness is stirring an excitement in me for the other changes in my future February ushers in.

I will be uprooting myself out of the lovely consistent six-hundred square feet I have been sleeping in for the past year, and into a temporary room of four walls beneath a space where other's reside. This temporary space will hopefully allow my stash of cash to increase, further enabling me to make an even greater change in the place I will reside.

The six hundred square feet I mentioned above, as well as Tulsa's lovely simplicity and some of the best friendships I could imagine for myself, have been my season's February; They are the things that have propelled the greater circumstances of my life toward change. Courage has come from my time here in Tulsa, and confidence from the stability I have surrounded myself with over the past year.

There are times when it's necessary for us to pry ourselves out of our circumstances. Sometimes comfortability keeps a person from realizing how much more there can be. I am thankful that my decision to leave this season is much more natural, and doesn't require the use of a shovel. Tulsa's been my garden, and I could stay here, and resist the sunshine and water surrounding me, encouraging me to bloom...But that's what staying here would be: a resistance, with shovel in hand, and a freeze on the horizon. Leaving is nature's course, my chance to flower.

And that's why February of two-thousand and ten is going to be such a beautiful month, and such a picture of all the wonderful and wonderfully painful things awaiting me in my twenty-seventh year; my birthday - a reminder of a year passed, of the things I have and also, a reminder of the things I do not, an epic cocktail party, and a likely emotional goodbye to my home, my space of comfort and ease...I do not kid myself into thinking leaving Tulsa and what's currently comfortable will be easy, or that there will never once be a feeling of regret. There are relationships I have formed from my time in Tulsa that will be altered by absence; hurt will likely follow me wherever I go. But so will adventure, and if I choose to flower wherever I go, I shall welcome new relationships, too.

Cheers to you, February...Twenty-seven years of age, and the changes that will follow. I welcome every bit of every bit of of it all.