The Symbol of What Once

I'm in San Antonio for work. I've been traveling a lot lately, with so, SO much more to come.
I had a pretty good day. Work went well. It was 14 hours, but it ended on a high note and I was feeling good.

I got back to my hotel room and decided I'd put on a few tunes while I got ready for bed.
I reached for my ipod in my purse.
Not there.
I searched my roller bag. All five pockets. I dumped it out.
Not there.
I searched my suitcase, dumping all my freshly folded clothes onto my bed.
Not there.
I searched my office.
Not there.
I went to the conseirge desk.
Not there.
I double checked everything, everywhere, every drawer, every folder, every ever.

I began to cry. Not just cry, but hyperventilate. Break down and can't breathe cry. Need-to-get-back-to-my-room-before-I-scare-the-other-elevator-patrons sort of cry. Can't control it cry. I've never reacted to the loss of an object that way. I've lost cell phones, wallets, cameras, computers--no reaction even close to this.

This iPod was given to me in November of 2007. I was unemployed, single, broke and discouraged. When my car was broken into and my old iPod stolen I was fully ready to give up on life.
I did what I'd always done in those situations--I called Natalie. Through a gracious few steps (and completely unprompted), she and her husband Mike surprised me with a new iPod, complete with the engraving, "Jesus loves you. Thou Shall Not Steal" as a joke on the back.

Since the day I got it, that iPod has meant more to me than as a simple mp3 player. It is a symbol of being loved, of specific care, of mattering. And since her death it's taken on a more serious meaning; it's a reminder. It's like her heart still beats as long as I have it; she's still with me. She's there with me in every song, ever new playlist. Losing it felt like her dying all over again. I can't believe how it hit me. I realized tonight I would run back in to a burning building for a nearly five-year old iPod because of what it represents. I realize that is irrational, but rationality has never made truth any less true.

I found the iPod. It wasn't lost. And yet an hour after its return I still had difficulty calming down. I lived Nat's loss and death all over again and it simply doesn't stop just because the catalyst stopped. I was completely blindsided by the whole event; it felt like I got jumped by grief, a gang of thugs hiding in my darkened hotel room.

I plugged in my headphones into my iPod and put on Mindy Smith's "One Moment More" album, one of Nat's favorites. I sat with my irregular breathing and puffy eyes and listened and I missed her more than I had in months, her heartbeat sounding the bass drum, the keys, the guitar. My heartbeat slowed and sang along.

The Season Had Changed

Lately…

• I’ve been wondering where my spiritual home is. It’s a good thing to wonder about; good to openly seek a place in which to grow and be challenged. Last week I had the chance to sit down with my pastors over wine and discuss theology, scripture, what church is and why it’s important. I adore conversations like that. I wish I had more of them. I left more in love with those women than I was when it started, and yet still unsure of what I do next. Trying to be open to anything. May the courage of my convictions supersede the cowardly ease of my familiarity.
• I flew to Florida for a weekend with Erin. It was a lot of travel and a lot of money, but seeing the familiar is a necessary tonic. I love those friendships that have survived so much, that have that ease of conversation. It’s like being tuned back to the note at which I sing best.
• I’ve been a bit obsessed with Balmorhea, an Austin-based instrumental ensemble. Their 2008 album, Rivers Arms, has been on repeat for a few weeks; I haven’t yet found a place where it didn’t fit. “Baleen Morning” and “The Winter” just slay me. Highly recommended. I’ve not been one who was particularly drawn to instrumentals. Now I’m finding myself collecting more and more of them.


• This morning my windshield was covered in pollen and I scratched my itchy eyes and knew the season had changed.
• I’ve reconnected with my best friend from high school. She has been married for ten years and has three kids; I have a dog. Somehow we still have so much to talk about. There’s hope.
• I had a dream that a flock (gaggle? Posse?) of ducks had imprinted on me. They followed me around—about 20 of them, of all ages—and I was stressed because I knew they needed to get to water and I didn’t know where water was. I finally did find still water and I was so relieved. I discovered that it was saline, but it was too late. The ducks turned away from me. I awoke ashamed.
• The puppies will turn a year old this weekend. I live each day with that confidant expectation that I’ll never have to go through that again and I’m relieved. I’ll love them forever, but what an incredibly difficult time.
• My boss and I were talking about logic puzzles and now I can’t stop doing them. I love how clear cut they are. I love that there is only one right answer and that I can get there using what’s in front of me. I’m sure that sentiment is true in other areas of my life.
• I really loved “The Hunger Games” movie. I thought they did a great job interpreting the book. Odd to see places I know to be calming shown on the big screen (it was filmed outside of Asheville, much of it in Dupont State Forest) serving as the backdrop to a story so dark.
• “New Girl” is hilarious. I gave up on “Glee” months ago. I’m still scared to turn on my TV, so thank god for Hulu.

Pilgrim in Progress

I’m not one for resolutions.
This is probably because I’m terrible at remembering them and I lack the discipline to keep them even if I do remember they exist. So best to not make them at all.

As 2012 dawned, I was asked by some friends to join their indoor soccer team. This shouldn’t be a big deal; it’s rec league, indoor soccer. Basically if you have a pulse and paid your dues, you can play. The team isn’t competitive, it’s more for fun. And yet I still found myself paralyzed at the thought of playing, fearing that I’d be terrible, that I wouldn’t be able to do it. I haven’t played any sort of sport since elementary school. In a word, I feared I would fail. But I did it; I said I would play. I hyperventilated on my way to our first practice.
Revelation: I’ve had a BLAST. I mean a BLAST.
I LOVE IT.
I can’t believe I ever considered not playing. I can’t wait for the next season. It’s not that I’m particularly good, but that isn’t the point, is it?

I realized how much my fear of failure has paralyzed me in all these aspects of my life. I literally don’t do things because I’m worried about looking bad or ignorant, being terrible at it, or not living up to my ridiculous expectations, not being the best version of myself. I’m so insular.
And so, for 2012, I’ve decided that each month I’ll take something that scares me and I’ll try it. I’ll face it. I’m consciously trying to keep expectations out of it. I’m going for the experience.

Ann Lamott said, “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.” With that in mind, I started in earnest my first novel in mid-January and it’s coming along, slow and steady. It’s outlined, and I’ve only about 5,000 words of it written but it’s forming. It’s thrilling. I can’t stop thinking about the story, can’t wait to get back to it. I have no idea if it’s any good. My goal is to have over 60,000 words by the end of the year. Hold me to that, will you?

February and March have brought their own fears and own challenges, neither of which I’m ready to write about just yet but know that they are identified & in progress and I’m super uncomfortable with them both.

I don’t know what other fears I’ll face this year. It seems horribly personal to consider. I wish I was frightened of something like public speaking, or heights, something easier to face than the personal demons I carry around in my own Pilgrim’s Progress Jansport full of self-loathing, self-aggrandizing & pride.

The Hidden Soft Spots

Recent Dream:

Began as a visit to an old building that was meant to be a church but really looked a bit more like a massive dairy barn. The whole structure was wood. The first floor was open, the pews pushed to the side and people were milling about. The ceiling was a good 20-30ft up; the room had wide windows along the sides. It was beautiful, well-crafted, a unique and memorable space. I was touring the facility with a young man who was considering it for a small wedding. Three of us went upstairs to see the smaller chapel housed there. There were maybe 12 other people already upstairs. The place was calm and relaxed. This man and I were walking and talking when suddenly the floor gave way and he plunged. I looked through the hole in the floor to see him screaming and bleeding, bones exposed on the ground below. The other people upstairs panicked and started to run toward the stairs and several of them found weak spots in the wood and they themselves fell. There was screaming and fear as we all realized the floor was littered with dark, weak spots of wood; how we’d missed them up to that point wasn’t clear. Every step we took had the potential to be gravity’s finest; to be our last. I remember frozen in place, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the fields beyond, wondering how such a quiet day could become so loud.
I have no idea what it means.

A Person Unexpected

This post unabashedly brags about one of my nearest and dearest friends.

We met shortly after college graduation, nearly 9 years ago. Erin was the new Young Life intern in my hometown and was moving in with Natalie and Mike. Nat had me come over to clean this new girl's apartment in the attic of the Old Stone House and then one Sunday informed me that I was to be friends with the new girl until she learned her way around and, "made some real friends." Nat did not have high hopes for our friendship. To be honest, I didn't either.

Erin had gone to a private Christian high school in Virginia Beach, then to JMU. She knew several people I'd grown up with that had gone there. She was on YL staff (immediate distrust); she was conservative. The odds were against us.

But that summer I didn't have any girl friends around. She was it. And through the Venn diagram of boredom and approximation, we became friends. I remember driving around in my old 1987 Tempo (Shout out, Roy) with her that first Sunday thinking, "This girl isn't half bad!" We became speed dials; me because I was bored and Erin because she was disorganized.

Her 23rd birthday we threw her a surprise party at the Pizza Hut in Leesburg, then went bowling. There was a reason it was there, I just don't remember now.

Bowling after Pizza Hut. Grafton provides background.

When the doctors thought I had cancer, it was Erin who drove me to my appointment almost two hours away to get my bone scan. I didn't ask her to, but she insisted. When I think of an image of friendship, that is what I see.

When I was so frustrated at where I was, with how my life was looking, I'd constantly be surprised to look up and find Erin there with me. We lived our Stag 20s together. We did a lot of listening (she probably more than me). There were nights hiking through snow or watching DVDs of "Gilmore Girls". There was the random party after Chris & Rachel's wedding. There was the time Erin yelled, "GOD DAMMIT, SPOONER, I WROTE YOU A GOOD RECOMMENDATION SO YOU BETTER LIVE UP TO IT!" which may have been the first and only time I've ever heard those words come out of her Good Christian mouth. There were breakups and more than a few moments of self-shattering doubt. She was a wise voice of truth; I was the wild voice of cutting loose. She'd initiate the heart-to-heart; I'd bring over the wine.

A true sign of friendship is believing you've incredible luck. I feel like I'm cheating something to call her my friend.

Fall 2008 I met Erin for a 48-hour ridiculous adventure in Paris. It was the most geographically lost I've ever been, and yet I was never stressed or annoyed; I was with my friend. We still laugh about that trip. We provided each other with a face of familiarity.

And so it was only fitting that she's the one who told me Nat was dying; she's the one who called me when Nat had passed. She's the hand I held at Nat's memorial. She is my sister.

Natalie's death cemented something in us. I don't quite know how to explain it; she was the only friend in my life who knew Nat like I did, who understood why that woman was so vital and we spent more than a few hours on the phone in various states of grief. I don't think we're done with those calls just yet. I actually spent Christmas 2010 with Erin and her then boyfriend (now husband) Awesome Awesome Jon, and Erin and I stayed up incredibly late, talking through our grief under the glow of Christmas lights. Selfishly, being near her makes me a better person.

Awesome Awesome Jon and Erin graciously allowed me to fulfill my not-so-secret ambition and serve as a DJ for their wedding. It was nuptials for the ages. It is still discussed in those revered, hushed tones and I'm sad to say it's not because of my mad DJ skillz. It's because it was a ceremony full of wisdom and wonder, whimsy and life. They didn't shy away from the seriousness of the commitment but captured the joy of the moment. I cried. Often. I wish every wedding was like theirs.

And not just because of the most amazing balloon man EVER.

For New Years I went down to Jacksonville to visit Erin and Awesome Awesome Jon in their new home. It was such a relief to be around my friend who knows me well; who delves into the deep conversations as if they were held in the cups of coffee in our hands, who laughs easily and encourages humor without stressing it. I pray that Erin is a lifelong friend. I pray I'm the sort of friend who is worth it.

Erin and I will probably never live in the same city again; the seven hours apart we are now is the closest we will be in the foreseeable future. That feels so final. It physically hurts to realize I can't swing by her place when I've the best or worst news, even as we've not lived near each other in almost six years.

It's easy to not believe in God.

Easy to believe that chance, hormones and gravity are all that's at work in our lives.

But I find it hard to ignore when specific needs have been so meticulously met; when a friend I'd never choose becomes a friend I can't do without, when the voice most needed comes through a person unexpected.

And for that--and so many other things--I'm grateful.

(Posts about Erin: here and here and here and here. There are probably more but I'm feeling lazy)