positively painfully honestly strange.

Strange would an appropriate way to describe theme and feel of my week. It's been unnerving at times. There have been multiple monumental life marker moments. It's almost been too much. I say almost, as it all fits appropriately inside the knob that I've been using to turn up the volume. But sometimes, when you turn it up louder than it's ever been, these sounds and tones and notes come out that you haven't ever heard before, and the loudness makes you feel a little strange. This week, the last week of March in the year two-thousand and ten, I have felt a lot of strange.

My week of strangeness follows a week of revelations, which is another reason why it has only been almost too much, instead of all the way.

I had a friend post a link on facebook today questioning the argument of stability over movement. The link led to an article about a Duke divinity grad that had written a book touting the goodness of rooting oneself in one place, instead of moving on to different or more.

I am not doing this - choosing stability. I am moving on. I haven't read his book, and don't know the root of his perspective, but I would venture to say that the argument over moving on or staying put is unique to the individual and the individual's situation.

Last week I asked myself these questions, more heavily than usual. I am going, and I am confident with my decision. There is a line in "The Drifter and the Gypsy", the song that Meagan gifted to me, that says, "The train is almost here, this decision seems so clear...". Yep. That almost sums it up. Today, and for a while now, I have not craved or needed stability. It hasn't been on my list of priorities, or a factor I consider when making any kind of decision about my future. Since this isn't the norm among individuals, my thought is that I should ride this unstable wave while it's here. If I am comfortable with movement and change, I should embrace it while it lasts, and experience much while the specifics of my circumstance encourage this adventure that I crave.

Following that was my next revelation, that pesky pest, desired companionship. This has been a word I try to avoid and a thought I try not to indulge. I proactively allot more space in my head for other things. But while spending added time last week asking myself, honestly, what is at the root of my inclination to go and my choice to see and experience more, this usually diluted desire kept bouncing back to the surface of my thoughts. I labeled it a bad guy long ago, and have, for a long time, treated it as a weakness. During one season of my life, post being hurt by other people, I fully grasped how important it is for people to not depend on others to know themselves. Defining oneself through others can be exceptionally unhealthy, and it's my belief that the more you are okay with just yourself, the more you welcome healthy and functional relationships into your life. Because of my self-sufficient soap box, I mistakingly crammed the desire for companionship, instead of just the need for companionship, into the box shameful things.

Last week, I gave myself permission to embrace what's natural, healthy, and for most people, human. Since I am a bit of a drifter, adventurer, I must go. But I realized that a really really big part the the decision to leave, and not just think about leaving, is this innate desire to find companionship, and someone to share all of this adventuring with. I have realized that if this is the way that I want to do life, to see and experience more, it's unlikely that I will find a like-minded person that's here in this place, staying put. Possible, but unlikely. And so, it makes sense to go and adventure for myself, which also increases the possibility that someone will come along somewhere along the way of change, someone that's adventuring in the same sort of way.

Two-thousand and ten isn't just about taking more risks. It's also about living honestly. I don't want to spend emotional energy suppressing natural and healthy tendencies, as that seems unhealthy and dishonest. I want to walk forward, look ahead, and feel everything that comes, fully, even if what comes is rooted in a disappointment that's stems from what hasn't.

Post revelations, a more open version of myself passed through. It's a me that's choosing to embrace the positive aspect of things, while still fully feeling the negative. And I truly think I believe that this openness opens one up to so much more life. The painfully positive is opening me up, even more, to the wonderfully strange.

underneath.

Privy to many amplified sounds unheard by the average ear makes up the life of a basement dweller. Some are welcome: The sounds of love in conversation and laughter from the unaware couple to the left, and the unaware couple to the right, spring rain hitting and bouncing from the window right above my head, and footsteps above me when I am feeling alone. Others are less inviting, like the can't-be-good ticking that comes from our ancient washing machine in the damp dark room that neighbors mine, the cat that meows as if it's being murdered in the early morning hours each time it saunters by my ground level window, and footsteps above me when I am trying to sleep.

The footsteps above overlap categories, and serve as anomalies. They bring me peace, and unrest. Tonight, I will fall asleep with footsteps overhead, and in my head, a basement dweller in so many ways.

shared wisdom.

My friend Mary Beth...She is lovely and wise. She is also a light, and has taken risks with her life that have not only been beneficial for her, but also, all of the things and people involved in the full life she lives. She said this the other day:

"If you don't try there is a chance it may never happen."

And, of course, duh. Right? But for some reason the statement carries more weight coming from someone that I know has, in fact, tried.

And when I say this statement to myself, it gets me excited for the possibilities that gain a glimpse of visibility. I don't, as a habit, make resolutions when the new year begins, on the principal that if something in my life needs to change, I want to be as aware of needed change on August the twenty-sixth as I am on December 31st. But sometimes, an awareness of needed change happens to fall at the turn of a new year, and in this case, decade.

Right before the old year turned new, a friend so eloquently informed me that "you love change and excitement, but you are not a true risk taker". Oh the joy of having honest friends. This statement, and the remainder of the email that accompanied it, helped open my head to some of the things in my habits and thinking that truly did need to change. Appropriately and timely, my "new year's resolution" for two-thousand-and-ten was officially to "take more risks".

I referenced my friend Bruce in my last post. We are at completely different places in life, came from completely different decades and upbringings and have very little in common on a practical level, but there is a kindredness that cannot be denied. During one conversation, I drew a picture of a thought with very little words to explain the issue and he just nodded in understanding. Bruce has lived in Italy, killed sharks on the coast of Miami for bounty, and is currently going through chemo-therapy for lung cancer. He has sported a classy silver ponytail for years, but cut it all off before the effects of radiation did it for him. When I told him of the goings on in my life, he gave me a loud amen, and then said, so appropriately..."Let me tell you something," as he turned to me with body language that informed me what he was about to say needed more weight than a slouched posture would provide..."I have lived a lot of years and done a lot of things and the one thing I have learned: turn up the volume".

Try, take more risks, turn up the volume. I get it, I get it. I am trying. The rest of my friend's statement in the revealing email: "a risk is only a risk if its something you personally fear losing". So that's the rest of it. The excitement that accompanies added possibilities that come from trying, taking more risks, and turning up the volume, is also joined by a greater possibility for things lost, foolishness felt, and pain experienced.

And so, I raise my imaginary glass to Mary-Beth, Amelia, and Bruce, for their shared experiences and offerings of wisdom to inspire needed change, and the guarantee that though my two-thousand-and-ten will certainly not be pain free, it will be full.

to Bruce, and to Pam.

Have been feeling a bit apprehensive about the impact I will have on the lives of the family I will be staying with in DC. I have also began to mentally rush myself out of the city before I even arrive. I may fall in love with the place, and stay indefinitely. Why would I plan my exit before I even enter?

Emailed my concerns to my cousin...The incredible woman that is helping to make all of this wonderful change in my life happen, and this is how she so graciously responded:

"Dahling! Please do not think of yourself as anything other than an adored 'found' family member whose life i feel as if I must interrupt before she becomes so depressed at having not spread her wings she actually stays in a place unsuited to her and regrets it for the rest of her life!!!"

To come across a relative at such a late point in life that understands so much so well, and to be cared about by her?! I have so much to look forward to.

The excitement is escalating, and the ease behind the idea of going has returned, thanks to her effortless encouragement. Dear Bruce: Turning up the volume as I type this...

sololessons.

I remember the day I had my solo revelation, and the truth that there are things in life I will miss out on if I am not willing to do them alone. I was living in Florida at the time, and after getting off of work in the evenings, I had gotten in the habit of making for myself dairy free pancakes with fat free butter and sugar free syrup. Ugh. What an abundant life. Not. When I didn't have this delightful half-life-breakfast-for-dinner concoction, I would get Panera to-go; Key phrase from that sentence would be "to go". I had become accustomed to going to book stores alone and reading, or movies alone, and enjoying film, but those places were much more safe. It's easier to hide, or be discreet, and the actions add to the ease. One doesn't have to read or watch film. It's a hobby, and some people like solo hobbies. Less people stare, or feel the pang of sadness for your situation. But eating, it's much more personal. It's something we must do to continue living, and in so many places and cultures, it's innately social, or familial. Even if you are quite at ease with a meal out alone, others around you revel in the uncomfortableness. But I realized that I may go crazy if I eat all of my meals inside the stark white walls of the apartment I shared with my messy brother, and since I find a lot of pleasure in the ambience and atmosphere of a place, I would be living a less full existence if I didn't find a way to push past the lingering fears of misunderstanding or my distaste of the "oh, poor her" look and dine confidently "all by my own self", as my nephew would say.

And so I did just that, letting go, eventually, of the need to say, "It's okay! I am fine with this! I find enjoyment from alone moments!" as I have learned that in life if I choose to engage with people, it's inevitable that I will be misunderstood.

I have grown out of the necessity for such solo outings in my Tulsa season because there's, most often, someone to eat with when it's time to eat. I also eat a lot of my meals at work, as there's an abundance of food around and much of it's free. This is what I had planned to do this evening. I went into work with every intention of eating a bowl of the senate bean soup that I have fallen for, post bean breakthrough. I walked in the door on a most beautiful day and my co-workers and boss ushered me out. It was going to be a slow night, I wouldn't make any money, which left no point in me being there, they told me.

I gladly walked back out into the beautiful day, curled up in the recliner on our front porch, attempted to seek out an eating buddy, and eventually fell asleep while waiting for replies. I began to feel hunger pangs around six, the evening was approaching seven, and I was no longer able to wait. I had been craving a cheese burger, but tried to talk myself into a veggie Subway sandwich. And then I grew uncomfortable with the fact that I was trying to talk myself into something I didn't want, which felt a little like settling for the left-overs, and even more uncomfortable with the fact that one thing that was deterring me from getting my burger and beer was the fact that I would be eating it alone. "Wait a second here Meredith! You have already resolved this! You just go somewhere, be friendly and cordial, and create the meal experience you want, instead of going to sleep with vegetable onion breath still hungry and unsatisfied!"

I passed Liz on my way out of the house, and she asked me what I was doing. "I am going to get a burger and a beer at McNellie's," I replied, also inviting her to join. She had somewhere else to be. While approaching my destination, I received a reply to my previous dinner invitation...She had been in a meeting, and was going to have a late dinner with her fiance, which meant a few hours, and I was welcome to join...I declined.

I went to the upstairs bar, which was the less crowded of the two, and I ordered what I had been wanting. The beer was on tap (something Subway didn't offer), the burger met my craving (and then some) and the sweet potato fries were cooked to (crispy) perfection. I ran into some people that I knew while I was there, and though it was nice to see friendly faces, it wasn't necessary. That hadn't been the point of my endeavor, and when a waitress made the comment, "oh good, now you have friends," when I went to join them for a bit, I had to quiet my verbal inclination...And refrain from defending myself or my solo moment.

I left there with a renewed sense of satisfaction from solo adventures, post conversation with a kind stranger, and laughter from the lady that served me my beer. I decided to keep up my solo task, and try a dessert place I had failed to actually enter. I let the ladies at the counter know of my evening's theme, which brought smiles to their faces, and I picked the corner table that, it felt like, had been reserved for me. I sat and observed the lively tables before me, enjoying the laughter of others, and my lemon tart. I sipped my coffee slowly, and reminded myself to savor the moment, and the tarts shortbread crust.

I had woken this morning with a six-ish mile run before me. I wasn't going to complete it so early because I wanted to, but because I didn't think I would have the time later in the afternoon, as I would be working. And then, a run that happened out of necessity set the pace for a most wonderful day. I had marveled at this little blessing earlier, when it was light outside...That sometimes the things we are forced into bring the most unexpected joy. And as I drove home in the darkness, full and happy, I related my morning's blessing to my evening's, as well. I hadn't intended to eat alone, as I sought company before leaving my house. The decines had been out of my control, and since I wanted that burger and that beer and didn't feel like compromising, my solo meal happened out of necessity. It led to solo dessert and solo confidence, and the most unexpected joy.

And this is all good and timely because, friends and readers, I am preparing to embark upon a much more substantial solo journey very soon from now. March is coming to an end, which leaves but two months before I move to a place where I am almost completely unknown. I needed my evening's adventure to remind me of what I am capable of, and prepare me for what will likely be a much more common occurrence.

I decided in the darkness of my evening drive home to make this solo action happen more frequently while I am here, when it's not necessary, so that it doesn't feel so foreign when it is.

looking past.

Looking back on my previous years gives me so much to be thankful for in the present. There were so many off seasons, like when it's supposed to be spring but winter refuses to leave, and snow continues to fall with fervor in March.

I was riding my bicycle to my new home in the midst of a truly springlike season a few days ago and thankfulness struck me; I was reminded, with a chill, of the many winters passed.

Looking back is a funny thing. It's tainted, and often, the negative stands out so much more clearly than what was good. I remember a snow a few years ago at my parents' house. It's true country and trees take up most of the space in the yard. There was white snow covering bleak surfaces, white topped branches of leafless trees up against a gray sky; Walking outside felt like walking into a black and white photograph. I ventured off of the porch and into the yard, and there on the branch of a tree was the reddest red bird in the record of my memory. Each time I looked up into the otherwise blank canvas, my eyes went strait for it's crimson feathers. When I look back on my years passed, the bad stands out in my mind like the red red bird.

Yesterday was a day in stark contrast to the day I mentioned above. It's that time of year when winter is trying to make its way out, and the beautiful days are appreciated so much more because of the weather they follow. I had only been outside in the dewey morning, when the sun hadn't been out long enough to warm the day. I was stuck inside for a few hours, as the sun did its job, and when I opened the door for the first time, I was literally enveloped in its warmth. I felt it on my skin, I breathed it in, and I was reminded of the goodness from my past that I too often overlook.

The red bird that stood out to me from my day's black and white photograph was too picturesque to represent the less than ideal memories and seasons from my past. The bird was the color, joy and consistency, like the beautiful people coloring my memories, filling them with joy and being so very there, always and in all seasons. The beauty of spring - the budding dogwood in my front yard, the greening grass, and relentless presence of the redbirds - reminds to look past the clouds of disappointment from the previous years, and instead, at the lasting and abundant friendships perched atop my history's trees.

clean money.

I ran out of gas for the second time this week on Saturday evening.

I ran out right in front of my house.

I forgot the following morning, as I was leaving for work. When I tried to start the Stratus, she just rumbled and rejected.

So I rode my bicycle instead. On the way home, I clutched my little purse in one hand, letting my cash tips make the ride in my right pocket.

I went to leave the house that evening to get some necessities at Walgreen's, not getting far, as I couldn't find the cash I had made.

The clothes were in the wash, and it was my hope that the cash was too.

I rolled up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and stuck my hands in the soapy water, fishing for cash. I didn't feel anything.

I went upstairs, sat, and ate some potatoes.

Either my money was on the road between my work and my home, in the pocket of a lucky stranger that happened upon it while walking between my work and my home, or getting really clean with the rest of my clothing.

I sat on the couch, at a loss, with no control over my potential loss. I had to wait until the water drained. I waited, feeling the weight of no control.

I sauntered down the stairs a half an hour later, to the sound of silence in the laundry room. The cycle had finished, literally.

I opened the lid, fumbled through clean wet clothes, and eventually came to a soaking wet wad of cash.

Cheers to happy endings, post lack of control enveloped in ambiguity.

riding.

Regardless of where I go or how I grow, small town America will always be the place I am from, and what I say when someone I meet along the way asks, "where is home?" I grew up across the street from an old dairy farm that had real cattle guard at the driveway's beginning, and my bedroom sloped downward from the rest of the house for the majority of my childhood, as it was a poorly planned add on to a little old farm house. I have been stuck behind a tractor on a two lane road more times than I can count, and, appropriately, our little town's festival is called "Hay Day". Apparently, we are "The Hay Capitol of the World", even though Yates Center, Kansas and another town in Arizona claim the same title.

As a child, "Hay Day" was the summer's destination. It's what we waited for. At the beginning of June, when school was out and days seemed to last forever, this otherwise uneventful town with one blinking red stoplight in the middle, was transformed into a massive playground. Saturday morning of the festival was greeted with a parade, specifically, "The Inola Hay Day Parade". My grandmother dressed as a clown, we waved at the fire engines as they drove past, and scrambled to the concrete to get our little fingers on as much candy as we could stuff into our pockets.

The Hay Day Parade this year was going to be, for me, set apart. I wasn't going to be standing on the concrete, scrambling for the smartees and cherry jolly ranchers. I was going to be in the parade. I would be peddling on two wheels, decorated bicycle in check. There was a contest, and folks, I was going to win it. I may have covered my entire bicycle in pink and purple streamers, there may have been fringe coming out of my handles, and a purple umbrella with my name painted across may have been attached to my seat. Actually, all of that is true. Oh how I wish I had a picture to share with you. The winner of the bicycle decorating contest won ten-dollars, and it came in a check written out to the winner with the winner's name scribbled across the "make payment to" line. A check of my very own would make me feel even more adult-like than the classy umbrella on the back of my bicycle shielding me from the sun. And for a nine-year-old, feeling adult-like was the goal.

I look back on that now and marvel; I think we never grow out of this desire to be set apart, acknowledged, admired. I did end up winning the bicycle decorating contest, and I remember the width of my smile when my design skills and creativity, and all the effort I put into the process, were recognized by those I cycled by. I was on a cloud as I peddled away with my personalized check in hand, ten dollars richer. I felt like I may actually be able to ride my beautiful bicycle away into the cloud I was on. Gleeful would be the appropriate word to describe the feeling I had on the inside; It was so very apparent on the outside as well. There was music playing in my head, birds fluttering above, the sky was a bright blue and there were white clouds puffed up, scattered in just the right places. I specifically remember looking up and seeing the green leaves on the brown trees with the bright sunlight making its way through, hitting my arms, and the parts of me that weren't shielded by the whimsical umbrella above my head, and thinking that I must savor this moment.

CRASH! Abrupt ending to extreme bliss.

I was so fully living in the world that I had created in the above paragraph that I failed to realize the branches of the blooming trees hung a bit lower than the height of my umbrella. A low branch snagged the unbrella's ruffled front and, consequently, my entire bicycle. Moments later, my sky became gray, and I was laying on the gray concrete sidewalk, underneath my bicycle, next to my broken purple umbrella. My knees were skinned and bloody, and as I lifted my bicycle off of my disenchanted self, I was still trying to figure out what had happened. How had I not seen that coming?

I was thinking about this story earlier this week, and about that feeling that I remember having...So childlike and full of glee. It was a moment full enough to make it's way to my present day, to where I look back upon it with envy, specifically the part that took place before I snagged myself on a tree. I think it came to mind mostly, however, because of the incredible and abrupt contrast between being full of bliss on my bicycle, and then so quickly flattened on the concrete, so unprepared for the disappointment and pain that I had ridden myself fearlessly into.

And I think, a lot of times, life mirrors this. We pick ourselves up off of the concrete, gather up the broken pieces, wipe our skinned knees, and roll the bent tires of our bicycle home. Thinking about the bliss before sometimes makes the getting better worse, more difficult; but we do it anyway. And eventually, after a while, the knee scab heals, leaving a scar, to remind us of the blissfulness, and also, the not-so-blissfulness. We fix the bicycle, or we get a new one. And the beauty enters back in when we can get back on and ride, again, fearlessly underneath the beautiful summer branches, spotted clouds above, birds singing in our ears.

understanding. it's good.

I was talking to a friend yesterday about creative types. I would venture to put myself in this category. I do because of the reactions I often get from other people at my ways. I remember having an email conversation with my mother not too long ago. We were talking about my wayward nature, and the things in life I am drawn to. With the exception of my outgoing...um...ness, which I get from my mother, the rest of my personality falls much more in line with that of my father. Because of this, the both of us have received many pairs of rolled eyes and looks of confusion from our home's matriarch. It wasn't that I had a hunch that my mom thought I was weird. She would actually say, "you're weird".

The more a grew into adult-ish-ness, and the more I got used to myself, this weirdness wasn't a liability, like I sort of thought it was at one time. I think at one point in my life, sadness came from an attempt at suppressing it. Insecurity is crippling, and breeds discontentment with oneself. At that stage, the natural reaction to such a false state of mind would be to conceal..."be less of this, Meredith, or less of that...you're too much...figure things out...laugh less loud...shhhhhh"...etc. Embracing the weirdness makes for a much happier person. Funny thing is that when someone becomes more at peace with the way they are, and stops fighting to be what they aren't, people often enjoy being around them, naturally. It's a much better way to live.

Because of my comfortability with the weirdness, it was the right time to have a conversation about it with my non-doting mother. Had our talk about it happened before, I would have left it hurt and offended, and probably would have felt misunderstood and attacked. I am making such audacious assumptions because that's the way most of my conversations with my mother went for a very long time.

I was in Korea parading myself around as a substitute english teacher for a few months, and I think she may have been wondering what I was going to do when I returned. I was attempting to explain myself, and used the phrase, "I know you think I am weird, mom, but"...

And then she said one of the nicest things she has ever said to me. It was so nice because, despite my comfortability with the weirdness, I was still maybe a little hurt deep down somewhere at my mother's lack of desire to understand me, and the feeling that she was able to wrap my complex personality up in such a rather incomplete nutshell perspective. She said, "I don't think you're weird, sis. I just think you're...Creative."

a grateful day.

I wrote a post on here around the turn of the year about life getting better as the years go by, as opposed to worse. It's not just a hope of mine, but something I consciously try to work toward. And I do think it's work. I think it's easy to let go. I think a lot of people live the day to day until it's been worn into the ground and eventually look up at a bleak reality to ask themselves, bumfuzzled, "how did I get here?"

A marker for this phenomenon is often the day we were born, and each year, its anniversary. It's how time marks our progress, our personal year, and where we've come since the previous number we claimed as our age. At twenty four, life started to look brighter. Twenty-five was the year I stopped apologizing so much. Twenty six was a year of stability and growth that brought a strong sense of comfortability with myself.

Despite growth, note that I am not immune to insecurity. Just when I get so pious to think I am, it pops up out amongst the weeds. I think this is something I will always be conscious of, as if life is always spring when weeds are relentless and persistent, threatening to overtake the bed of tulips that began underground, working their way to the sunshine all winter long.

Last month, I found myself at this marker, growth in check, digging up weeds, and walking in line with my twenty-seven resolution, to take more risks. And it was, by far, my best birthday yet.

The day was idyllic, and began with a sunrise run. My morning was a gift, with a moment in the sun, accompanied by some healthy tears, after reading thoughtful words from my mother on a birthday card. I spent time during the day with Chris, one of my dearest friends. There was delicious food at lunch paired with delicious wine, which meant lunch tangibly held three of my favorite things for me to fully experience, without rush or haste, and no where else to be. Catching-up honest conversation followed, which was paired with a little more wine in the sunshine. I then had some time alone, to reflect and breath, and then prepare for dinner with some of my favorite people at one of my favorite places, my life's own version of "Cheers". Social time at Vintage 1740, which could be considered the after party. A rather dominate joy was walking in and seeing a couple of people that had said they weren't going to make it sitting on the couch in anticipation of my arrival. I was a little later than they, as there was much dancing to John Legend taking place in the car on the way there, which spurred a wrong turn and a necessary turn-around in a school parking lot. My face lit up when I arrived in their presence.

Fast forward a bit. I am going to skip the details of an awkward moment that was less than ideal. I am saying there was an awkward moment, however, as I don't want to give the false impression that my day was fully spot free. Part of the fun of it all is moving past the moments we don't want to relive and finding fulfillment despite them. In addition to this ghost moment that will never be read on my blog but maybe told in story form if you have the courage to ask, I also glued my rearview mirror on to my car's window, upside down, and these moments shall take their rightful place in the grass amongst the weeds. I shall walk on them, and past them.

The end of my day was appropriate; unexpected dancing with a handful of strangers on an otherwise deserted dance floor at closing time. Lucky for me, someone happened to be there to catch it in picture form.

And now, the pictures of one grateful day...

I hope the look on my face screams gratitude.

I love this picture.

Sister friends.

The Sawyers. I am grateful for this couple on so many levels.

Blowing out the candle. A plate of birthday desserts to go with my sweet company.

Those that joined. Liz is hiding behind Zac, but she's there.

The two on the left were the surprise attenders.

The one on the left: my dear lunch buddy. The one in the middle: wonderfully elusive, but when present, like a fine wine.

"It's my birthday!" And then there was dancing.

my fantastical parents.

I am writing this while listening to the blues. I don't think I have ever blogged to the blues before. It's in honor of my epic evening last night. I have, for many years, dreamt of seeing Eric Clapton play live. A good portion of the reasoning behind my desire was so that I could see the look on my father's face while watching a musician he has idolized since the musician's beginning. He said last night that he had one of his albums that he remembers listening to in one of his old beat up pick-up trucks (those were the only kinds we had, and there were many) in tape form, until he literally wore the ribbon raw.

I moved this past weekend out of the garage apartment that I have always written so fondly of on this blog, and into the basement space that I have a feeling will receive fond space as well. It all came from one of those memorable over wine conversations I was having with a friend. It wasn't just the wine, but I remember this conversation in particular being one that stirred up necessary things in the both of us, and one where we didn't just speak of this or that, but rather, what we both could do to challenge ourselves to change. I wasn't sure what would come of my future, but I knew that I wouldn't be staying in Tulsa forever, and I knew I needed to find a cheaper form of rent for some time before I left. She casually mentioned how all of her fiance's things were piled in her basement. "You have a basement," I asked, as the wheels in my head began to speed up. "Yeah...Just around the corner from the kitchen down the stairs," she said. I paused. "Is it livable," I said? "No, not really," was her response. "Tonia used to paint in there, but it's pretty tiny, and you have to walk through it to get to the laundry." She paused, as the wheels in her head began to speed as well. "Actually, you know? Maybe. If it was cleaned up," came next. I reminded her how primitively I am capable of living, and of the tiny apartment that I lived in while in Korea, and how much my world opened up in that small space. By the end of the evening, it was decided.

My parents came on Saturday to move my big things to their storage space, the things I am not sure I will ever need or see again. They came on Sunday to pick up the necessities and deliver them to my new underground home. I have always wanted to live in a basement. I like making believe a lot in my life. Birds follow me, a hope that unicorns will talk to me, and also that I will eventually be able to fly from tree top to tree top like I could in my dreams as a child. These are all attempts to make the mundanity of life a little more magical. And my imagination goes wild at the thought of residing in a basement. If ever gnomes were going to come out of their coves to talk to normal people, it is my thought that they would begin by entering basements, as that's most similar to the comfort of their underground home. So if they are going to come out at all, living in a basement, I have this feeling that they would appear to me before the rest of the world, which puts a sparkle in my eye.

Just by helping me move, my parents helped make my fantastical dreams come true. They also built a wall out of nothing to provide privacy, cleaned my the apartment I was moving out of, patched up the holes in the basement I am now residing in, bought me dinner, and worked on my life until nine in the evening despite the fact that they both had to work the next day, while I had the day off. No matter how I age, how old I get, how many birthdays that pass, they still enjoy parenting.

And I equally enjoy being their child. Despite how much I wanted to hear Eric Clapton play "Layla" live, and then getting to see it, my very favorite part of the entire show was the look on my father's face when Mr. Clapton began to strum his guitar to the notes of "Cocain". My mother is the most giving person I know, not just to her children, but anyone in need. In between moving my things on the longest Sunday ever, she helped my friend and room mate Liz cover up all of the holes in the backyard so that Ruby, an escape artist and dog, wouldn't be able to. Liz' parents live in New York and I am sure would help her if they could. My parents enjoy sharing their parenting with my friends.

I don't like thinking of this, naturally. But anytime I am at a point of change, the big picture stuff pops up. Will I ever need this stuff I am putting in storage again? Will I ever live in Tulsa again? Where will I be this winter? Who will be in my life? Will my parents always be there for all of it? The only answer I know is the last one. They won't.

And though I don't want to dwell on it, I will say the bright spot in it all. I am thankful...For their help, and for the good they have always tried to bring into my life that I know will carry me, feebly, through the times when they aren't there. For the blues, and that the blues will always make me feel close to my father, wherever I am. For the love of animals, and people, and that any stray dog will always take me back to the selflessness of my mother, wherever I am. And until I have to face the painful reality of life's cycle, I will dwell on the fact that my parents are still here, offering me love, parenting as much as I will let them, and that when I go home, they will be there to greet me, along with the dogs, and the sound of the blues, playing in my head.

bagel lessons.

Yesterday I toasted my bagel too long. I usually use the right side of the dually-toastable toaster, which, I feel, matches my bagel toasty desires quite well. For whatever unknowable reason, on Monday the first of March, I put my wheat bagel into the left side, with the same amount of concern and trust I usually give to the previously mentioned right side. This means I don't check it often, and when it pops up and makes the quaint springy noise, I usually have to push it down again. So, I payed little attention, and I waited for the springy noise. I was also talking about deep life issues with Garth, which aided to my inattention. And when my round bread-y breakfast sprung up, after baking against the hot wires too long, it was appropriately too crispy. I like there to still be a good amount of chewiness with a bit of golden brown around the edges so that there is a combination of texture experiences going on in my mouth at the same time. There was but one experience with this here Monday bagel: crunch, crunch, more crunch, and then crunch.

Tuesday March second presented even more potential bagel woes. I arrived before the other guy. I was clearly in line, and had already ordered my americano. Barista clearly said, "Meredith, can I get you something to eat?" The other guy, the one that came in after me, answered, "bagel". "Um, excuse me sir. He was talking to me," I said. Okay. Not really. I didn't say that. I just thought it. So what's the potential woe, you may be pondering? We both clearly wanted a bagel, as we both clearly said bagel at the exact same time. He probably wanted to jinx me. Potential woe: There was one wheat bagel and two raisin bagels. We both wanted wheat. He acted as though he didn't care. I also did. Who was going to be the bad guy? Me. I pushed myself, choosing something I wanted less over something I wanted more. And then I put it into the right slot of the toaster with a watchful eye. It was an ideal toast, and it turned out that I was quite happy with raisin on a Tuesday, and didn't feel like I was missing anything at all.

Monday bagel was a weighty breakfast. With each crunch, I was reminded that there are so often things in life that we want and also, cannot have. Tuesday's was much lighter. The toast was faintly golden, and with each chewy-crunch, I was reminded that sometimes, life offers raisin like surprises, and what I think are the left-overs or second rate outcomes actually provide the feelings that have been coveted for quite some time.