Sweetness Follows

It is good to have a theme for a year.

My friends who live in the big blue barn have dubbed it "2010: The Year of Men" which is quite catchy; another friend is calling it "2010: Balls to the Wall". She decided this was going to be the year she said and did what she meant, social norms be damned. I respect her for that.

My theme for the year is Sweetness. I believe that 2010 is the year that brings sweetness; that after the soaring highs and storms and heartbreaks of 2009, 2010 will be the spring breeze. I hold to the confidant expectation that sweetness will follow this.

Sweet is one of the four basic tastes, the others being bitterness, salt and sour. I love the imagery of using those senses to describe our seasons; how every experience has a taste, as if life is on our tongues.

I don’t necessarily have any specific reasons to believe this sweetness will come, I just hope so. Maybe I’m just getting better at owning my hopes and expectations. It isn't here yet, but I know it is on its way.

I have I’ve found my attitude about things changing; I find I’m looking forward more than before. I’ve had to change some habits (people and actions) which is never easy, but those changes have slowly distilled, have begun to take out the salt, the bitter, the sour. And so I go toward the taste of this season.

“Life goes on; I forget just why.” --E.St.V.M.

To Light, I Gain Power

I’ve been mulling over the Power of Story.

I like to think of myself as a storyteller, and in those rare moments of irrational confidence, I think I’m a pretty good one at that. I love to tell.

There are stories in my life that started as deep wounds. Moments of rejection or loss, embarrassment, pain or fear that, when they happened in real time, weren’t ready to be told because they were too close. They could become secrets or stories.
I find that by telling my stories, by bringing them to light, I gain power over them. They no longer hurt me, no longer reject or embarrass me, no longer act like kudzu around my life. By speaking stories, I beat them. I can choose to make them comical, make them sane or meaningful rather than the very gritty and uncut aspects of totality that experiences are. I cease to relive my stories and I start to witness them.

And so I tell these stories. Because they are mine, because they are part of me, because they are not me.

(I wrote about stories five years ago; here is a bit on memory and story, another bit on storytelling as oral history. I like to talk about stories.)

Every Footprint Left a Mark

It was middle school the first time I went into the house.

The drive to and from home took us down a winding, unmarked paved road. That house sat a few hundred yards off the road, down a lengthy driveway long overgrown and a rusty chain discouraging visitors. The roof and part of the attic were the only visible parts, the window in the attic tiny and shattered, a black scab on the chipped white clapboard exterior. I made up stories about that home for years. Its only neighbor was another ancient farmhouse, home to my friend Althea.

Althea’s house was creepy anyway. It was from the 1920s and had an elevator that ran up its 3 floors. It always had a sense of chilly dampness. One night Althea and I were there alone and we made the mistake of playing the video game “Doom” during a storm with all the lights off. We scared ourselves so badly we slept with the covers over our heads, frightened of every noise.

When we were 13 we decided it was time to see the abandoned house. We crossed the fences that lined the abandoned driveway and walked through the overgrown field, down to the front of the house. It sat on the side of a creek with deep banks, and the ground around it was a marsh. Every footprint left a mark in the mud. It was two stories tall, wooden, with a brick chimney at one end. The front door was broken open and all the windows were smashed.

We went in anyway.

The house was full. There were records in their sleeves in the cabinets, dishes in the sink, a moldy couch in the living room, knickknacks on the shelves. The living room had bright pink paint peeling off the wall. There were photos strewn on the floor; I was scared to look at them. Some of the stairs leading to the second floor were missing so I didn’t try to go upstairs. Althea did. She said it was the same as downstairs: as if a whole life had been left. I felt like I was both spying on a life and being watched.

We got scared and walked around back of the house, where it looked like the trees were slowly marching through the mud toward the house to take it back. I stepped on something soft and it popped up. It was a teddy bear with one eye.

I’ll never forget that teddy bear.

(not the actual house; it was bigger, more wooded and scarier. But very similar feel.)

More Thoughts on the Barn

The time at the Big Blue Barn blessed on many levels.

It reminded me how much I love my friends; how they let me be my nerdy self and just accept it; that they too are nerdy and highly intelligent but still can sing all the words to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” and will willingly spend at least an hour racing along a hardwood floor in socks, seeing who can slide the farthest.

It was carte blanche to temporarily be the Lost Boys from Neverland. We ate what we wanted, didn’t go anywhere, invented games and adventures and knowingly threw ourselves down steep icy hills toward fences and cows. We slept where we fell when we grew too tired to move.

Most of the time, I want to feel more grown up. I want my own place; I want to nest and shop for the week and make dinner for someone I love. I want to be part of a pair (2010 is the year of finally admitting this).

But during that snowstorm I got to live in a little microcosm of community as part of a posse—I wasn’t a single entity on my own—I was standing with loves. It was fleeting but so sweet to me and will be a time I recall fondly for years to come.

(photos stolen from Jenna, who, unlike me, has actually uploaded her photos)

Speak Through the Snow

I’m from Virginia and I learned from an early age that snow was God’s sign you stay home.

No exceptions.

If there is snow, God gave you a bonus Sabbath or two—take the time off, read a book, sled, nap; it’s a gimmie day. Don’t drive, don’t move too quickly; don’t attempt anything that could be construed as chores.

In New York, snow isn’t a sign of anything but a season. God didn’t speak through snow. Life doesn’t slow down, schools don’t close; offices stay open and work keeps happening. My years up there taught me how to drive in snow but made me lose some of my love of the fluffy white stuff. The common things lose their wonder.

This winter has changed and brought a bit of that love back; this past weekend helped.

The snow started on Friday afternoon. There were threats of 8 to 12 inches and the whole area was buzzing with anticipation. Grocery stores were selling out of eggs, milk, bread and beer; liquor stores did business like it was the holidays. I left work at 3, jettisoned home to quickly pack and begin the trek to the Big Blue Barn, a converted barn that is now a beautiful apartment housing three brave friends.

It took me one hour to go 8 miles.

8.
Miles.
GAH.

I was joined at the barn by the usual suspects of Doug, Justin and Tara (who brought her 3-month old puppy, Rooney) and with barn residents Jenna, Betsy and Emily (and a few other characters who popped in and out) and we settled in for our own version of a winter wonderland in a landscape covered in 12” of snow.

We cooked huge meals of spaghetti, pizza and lasagna. We had bacon and eggs and cinnamon rolls and knockoff captain crunch; we ate way too many cookies and chips and dips and we drank leisurely.

We watched movies. Lots of movies. And TV.

We played games like Scattergories and Farkle. We made unreasonable consequences for losing.

We went sledding. A lot. We injured ourselves in the process. We laughed so hard we snorted. We chased the puppy through the house and through the snow and gushed over him when he’d pass out from exhaustion.

Saturday night was the full moon and when it would pop out from behind the clouds the sledding track would be lit as if a spotlight had been shone upon it.

As if God was enjoying the snow right along with us.