The Safety in the Setting

There are certain events that still exist so close to the surface that to pull them out with words would be akin to itching a dangerous scab. Words work best on scars, not scabs; on the parts already cut and healed and marked, not on those so fresh that to prod them is to open up the bleeding. Scars are set and there is safety in the setting.

Much of 2010 is still scabs, those wounds where I’ve managed to stave off infection but haven't yet dealt with the long-term. All that is to say: I can't quite write about this year, because much too much of it is still too close. There has been progress and for those progressions I am thankful. I've built rich and meaningful friendships in places I didn't expect and have gotten better at my current job and my career. I found a fantastic church body and have relished getting to know it. I became more secure in my faith. But I make no bones: it's been an exhausting twelve months. The quaint, quivering little heartache that started the year seems so comical in light of the thunderous and lead-filled bombs of the summer. They simply can't compare.

I learned that there are as many ways to die as there are to live, and that death changes the core of those left behind. I know it's changed me. I learned that death takes bodies and leaves souls but depression takes the soul and leaves the body and no matter which robbing occurs there are those left to deal with the newly empty space. This year both of those losses found me.

I have a coworker who has been a sort of pen-pal these past few months (he works at another office) and lately we've been discussing the concept of community. He brought up the idea that communities are just like ecosystems: there are those who are consumers and those who are providers, and without a balance the community (and the individual) crumbles. I'm struck dumb by his use of ecological terms to describe one's place. 2010 has been a year where I've been a straight consumer. I haven't given anything to anyone this year, and I usually love to serve. I haven't had the energy to encourage or empathize or work at relationships or pursue friendships, haven't had the emotional capacity to look outside myself and I know that I—and those I love—have suffered from it. (To those who stuck with me this past year I offer my deepest gratitude and love. It didn't go unnoticed.) At the beginning of 2010 I predicted it'd be the year of sweetness. I just didn't know the sweetness wouldn't start to come until the very, very end.

2011: the year of renewal: of the mind, of the spirit, of the soul. Let the transformation begin.

The Following, The Progress

This past weekend my roommate and I had our annual Swanky Christmas party (I wrote about it once). 2010 was my fourth year hosting one (Jane’s sixth) and putting it together has become a familiar process—decorations, lights, furniture movements, purchases and requisite cleaning—so the stress level has decreased dramatically, even as the cost has risen. We had time to reflect a little bit on the purpose of the event. Part of the fun of the party is dressing to the nines and having some of our dearest friends over to get ready together. I rarely dress to impress; it requires way too much time and energy and I don’t care enough about my appearance to do it except in rare instances. But once a year the Swanky party comes around and all is on the table. I love to see the dresses and tuxes that come through the door, as if my friends and I were all bringing our bests together; the Voltron of beauty. Often I feel for first-time attendees who, in the day and age of dress casual, don’t quite get the true concept of elegance attached to the party. They stand out and not in a good way. This year, I went for a dramatic look. I wore the shortest dress I’ve ever worn (or probably ever will wear), dramatic makeup, upswept hair and big eyelashes. In a way, I transformed and I felt abnormally good about it. I didn’t do it for anyone (there wasn’t anyone at the party I particularly wanted to impress or attract) but rather because I could. The experience of transformation was my favorite part; to feel progress as if I got prettier with each step. At the end I felt like I shined, a feeling I haven’t had all year.

(Told you it was short! Blue lips due to a ring pop)

I don’t get to feel progress much.

My essay that got me into Syracuse was about slugs; how when watched closely they seem to make no progress, but how, when left be, the distance they cover is remarkable. This was a year of slugs.

I’m finalizing my annual best and worst list and marveling at the changes that occurred. I’ve lost friendships and habits but gained even more in a way so slight I didn’t feel them occur. In January I hoped that sweetness would follow the darkness that colored much of the year. In December death has not yet let me be. But sweetness has, for the most part, followed.

Investments

I’ve been spending more and more time alone as of late. It’s been by choice. Solitude breeds solitude; my introverted side has shone brighter than my need to be social, as if my world has rotated ever so slightly, just enough to change my season.

My Thanksgiving plans fell through last minute and though my gracious friends offered alternative plans (One including, “Have you ever seen two deaf people get into a fight?”) I decided to spend the holiday alone.

Best decision I’ve made this year.
Thursday morning I slept in, and then made a breakfast sandwich on one of the bagels I’d picked up at Bruegger’s the day before. I fixed a bloody mary (I decided the holiday was the best time to try new recipes) and sat on my couch in the sunlight, reading. I stayed in my pajamas all day, moving from couch to couch, changing only to switch activities from reading to watching to napping. I didn’t talk to another person until my father called at 5pm. I had a dinner of sage crusted pork chops, roasted brussel sprouts and rosemary red potatoes and ended the day at Ian and Tammy’s relaxing in their hot tub and playing the Monty Python version of Fluxx. My Michael Caine accent needs work apparently.

And so the day was lovely. I didn’t deal with the drama, old wounds or latent insecurities that come with all family get-togethers, not just mine. Didn’t have to spend time getting to know people I won’t see again, or telling the tired stories of who I am. I relied on no one, and I loved it.

And yet, I worry. I worry because it came so easily to me, and as I spent almost four full days alone, I came to crave that solitude even more. In my selfishness I became more selfish. I didn’t want to invest in others or settle in a community, didn’t want to share hearts or laughs. My solitude spiraled in on itself and I’m still fighting to get out of it, even as I enjoy it. I know it to be untrue, but right now investing in others sounds like so much work that I don’t care to try.