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)

Between the Numbered Boxes

I moved this past weekend, and in the process of packing up 4.5 years of life in my previous space I came across four well-worn books of Sudoku puzzles. Before I got my smartphone, a book of puzzles was perfect for entertainment so I had one on me at virtually every moment. It was just mindless enough to relax while keeping my brain on a quiet humming plane.

I was going through the old books and came across little notes or ideas I'd written in them. Some are song lyrics, some are quotes or things to do, but others are things I scribbled down. Maybe if the words won't come now I should air out the ones I've had before. I'm still searching for my once and future words. So here are a few of the things I found jotted in pencil in the margins, between those numbered boxes.

"My ice has melted into mesas, monoliths left by the low tide in my glass."

"I keep hope like a flare gun, strapped to my leg."

"The heart of the day
has overstayed
a guest without insight to leave.
The crickets are sighing
in kind manners trying
For something akin to reprieve."

"My hand looks like my mothers. Outside the double-paned glass there is frost.
On the ground it is 85 degrees. Under the ocean of cumulus there is another, more staunch in its perceptive, precipitous state.
And I don't know this ocean."

"You stop hearing the train once you live by the tracks.
That's what my dad says.
He does.
He says, "Son, watch 'em tracks. Stay away from 'em tracks."
And I do stay away.
Sometimes."

The state of:

• Maine
• Main
• Mane

Poor Names for US Battleships:

• USS Asston
• Good Ship Lollypop
• Love Boat
• Dingy
• USS Flee
• USS Milliard Fillmore

And this quote:
"Somewhere are place where we have really been,
dear spaces
of our deeds and faces, scenes we remember
as unchanging because there we changed." --In Transit, W.H. Auden

Gone

Let's be honest: I haven't been writing. At all.
I don't know exactly why.
In some form or fashion, it's as if words have left me, angry and unused. I didn't love on them and now they are gone. And I'm going. A lot. Work has me traveling and when I'm not traveling I'm either recovering from the travel or preparing for the next trip, and while I love such constant motion it hasn't been good for me. Feels like much that I thought was certain is no longer and the constant going keeps it all in the appearance of motion. Getting laid off back in January, though for the best, shook my understandings of anything claiming certainty. I've neglected things. Most things. And I've atrophied in just about every aspect I can, becoming more insular, more selfish, more reactionary, more exhausted. I don't know how to break out of it, even as I deplore it in me. Those lost words are haunting in their absence.
I really, really need some time off, but as I'm a contracted employee I don't get paid vacation and can't afford to simply not work. I'm craving respite and peace, calming quiet and time away from electronics. I'm craving Natalie's couch.

I wonder if people having breakdowns know it's coming. I'm worried I'm approaching one.

Space

I have a dear friend who is a bit of a space nerd, and he likes to complain during movies when spaceships pass the camera and their engines roar. “That doesn't happen,” he insists. “There is no sound in outer space. Sound is a variation in pressure in the air caused by waves, and as there is no 'air' in space, there is no sound detectable to the human ear.” This is usually when I'd throw something at him.

There is something so beautiful and mysterious about that. The vastness of space is silent. How absolutely lonely, to have the wonder of infinity in your sight and no way to proclaim it.